


Blind Trust

by PLISA



Category: The 100 (TV), The 100 Series - Kass Morgan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bisexual Bellamy Blake, College Student Clarke Griffin, Enemies to Lovers, Enemies to doubtful allies to still kinda enemies to friends to lovers, F/M, Happy Ending, Hate Sex, Or More Like, Professor Bellamy Blake, Slow Burn, Swearing, and shameless smut of course, but with a lot of angst and drama, each chapter will contain individual warnings, explicit but brief mentions of murder and death, just to spice up the plot you know, literally all warnings apply, oh and also pretty heavy plot, spies/assassins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-15 17:34:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 49,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28692549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PLISA/pseuds/PLISA
Summary: Clarke Griffin is the best hitwoman in Polis. Her mission? To kill Bellamy Blake. He might be top of his game, but he’s delusional if he thinks he has a chance against her.So, her mission is simple, really — until it isn’t.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake & Clarke Griffin, Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 271
Kudos: 329





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It’s me, I’m back 👀💙
> 
> Happy new year and happy new fic! This is something completely outside of my comfort zone, but I hope you like it anyways 😬 It will have 11 chapters and will be updated every Monday, Wednesday and Friday.
> 
> It’s a pretty heavy story, so each chapter will contain individual warnings at the end to avoid spoilers.
> 
> Happy reading!

Another cloudy night wraps around the skyscrapers of Polis, covering the last of the twilight sky. The rolling grey rapidly becomes as invisible as the stars it conceals, but the air still feels humid. She’s cold. 

The dark sky imparts a claustrophobic tension that leaves her body as soon as she crosses the rusty, metal front door in the back of the too-familiar alley. 

The stairs are even colder, and somehow they feel steeper than any other day. So Clarke finds herself clinging to the railing as if her life depends on it. The soles of her boots are covered in rain and blood, and her muscles already feel sore enough from that same afternoon’s endeavours. To fall down the stairs is the last thing she needs today. 

Once the seemingly impossible mission of getting down the stairs is complete, she wipes her hand out on her jeans, and puts it over the digital screen that is tucked away behind yet another rusty panel. 

Sometimes she fears someone might find it, this whole place, but no one ever comes to this part of town. They don’t have a reason to, unless they want to get mugged or killed. Which they will, if they get close enough. She’s seen it with her own eyes. Done it with her own hands. 

_ Beep _ . 

The door opens with an automatic click. 

“Took you long enough.”

And she’s in.

“Had to walk all the way here,” it takes her a second to get adjusted to the contrasting cutting-edge room that unfolds in front of her. 

A dozen computers and scans, 8D models and bleeping screens invade her senses for a moment, just like every time she walks in there. It almost looks like one of those futuristic movies she used to watch, and it should already feel familiar but it doesn’t. 

“It’s not like you can’t afford to get your driver's license with what we pay you here,” Charmaine Diyoza’s voice is already filling the room, all eyes on her for a brief moment before everyone goes back to work. Her undivided attention is on her, “How did it go?”

Clarke peeks over at Raven, who’s working at the back of the room, but she isn’t looking at her, “Neutralised,” hand in her pocket, she then hands the woman in front of her a small key. She sighs heavily, “Please, tell me it’s this one. I couldn’t find any other that fit your description. It has the ‘E.C.’ and everything.”

Diyoza’s eyes scan the tiny object for a second before a small, proud smile draws on her lips, “ _ Eligius Corporation _ . Well done, Clarke,” she puts the key back into her pocket before signaling towards her office, “That filthy rat will never steal from me again.”

Clarke raises a questioning eyebrow, “What did he want the key for, anyway? You can only use it down here.”

“Wrong,” a quick gust of cold air hits her cheeks momentarily as Diyoza opens the glass door, “It’s for my files back at the Council. We’d be in serious trouble if anyone got their hands on them.”

Clarke doesn’t know what she’s talking about, but she also isn’t about to ask. If she had learnt something about working with one of the most dangerous women of the country this past year, it is not to make any questions. Sometimes, ignorance truly is bliss. 

She watches carefully as Diyoza takes a seat behind her desk, and she can only guess what she called her in for, “What’s my next endeavour?”

_ Endeavour _ , because  _ mission _ sounds too Hollywood-like for her taste. 

It’s already dark outside, and her whole body burns from punching the living shit out of some guy earlier, but she knows she has no choice but to do as she’s told. If Diyoza wants her to pull an all-nighter and then pull the trigger on somebody else, then she’s pretty much settled for the following hours.

That’s how it’s been for the past twelve months. Perhaps longer, she isn’t sure anymore. 

“No more endeavours for today,” she says as she types something on her computer, then sighs, “In fact, there may not be for a while.” 

Now she wants to ask. Now she needs to know. 

“Why?”, she frowns. 

Her deep stare pierces into her for what feels like an eternity. Then, she’s standing up again, “You know why we do this for, don’t you Clarke?”

She knows. Of course she knows. She wouldn’t be there otherwise. She wouldn’t be their best, most skilled and efficient hitwoman if they weren’t committed to the same cause. 

So she nods. 

“And you would like to keep doing it for a long time, wouldn’t you Clarke?”

For a long time, she isn’t sure. She doesn’t know when the fruitful, liberating feeling of achieved revenge will finally conquer her whole being. She doesn’t know whether it will take her one more week, one more year, or forever. All that she knows is that she’s willing to wait. 

But she nods anyway. 

It takes the woman only one quick click to project an nitid image in one of the dark walls of her office. A man is staring right back at her, the pixels making her shiver. 

“Who is this?”, she asks, and she has a feeling she will not like the answer. 

“This,” Diyoza starts, “Is the reason why we might have to shut down Eligius Corp. in a few months.”

“A man?”

“Not a man exactly,” another click. A logo and a picture of a woman display on the wall next to the previous photo, “An organisation.”

“Indra has been at the head of Trikru for years. They have been operating in Polis for around three, but they hadn’t become a real threat until now. Some small kills here and there — pretty insignificant if you ask me. Getting out the inconvenient, insignificant trash for us while we focused on the real thing,” the screen bleeps and the man is staring right back at her once again, “But then she hired him.”

Tanned skin, black curls, freckles. Looks in his twenties. Not too intimidating if you ask her.

But Clarke hadn’t seen Diyoza so worried and bothered about competition since she started working for her, so she guesses this must mean very bad news. 

“Bellamy Blake. Twenty five years old. Monty has located him in nine crime scenes this month — all of them were cases we were working on. Needless to say, this beauty has cost us millions of dollars.”

Clarke gulps, “So you want me to kill him.”

Diyoza smiles, “Aren’t you a mind reader?”

It doesn’t surprise her that she’s counting on her to take down a dangerous man, really, no matter how bigger or stronger he might be. She has proven herself countless times, both her loyalty and her intelligence, and she’s not going to fail now. She’s deadly, and Diyoza knows it. 

If she wants this man dead by the end of the week, then she will give it to her. 

“Monty and Raven are working on a localisation device right now. It will be ready within a couple of days,” she informs her, eyes locking with the picture of this Bellamy Blake person in front of her, “But you don’t have to wait that long. You have a name and you have a face. If you see him — kill him.”

She nods, “Got it.”

She takes one last look at his face before leaving Diyoza’s office, debating whether she’d rather go for a slit throat or a bullet in the head this time. Both sound too appealing. 

Clarke likes a challenge, and sadly she doesn’t think this is going to be one. 

* * *

Her brain is one five percent battery when she wakes up the following morning, which she knows will be a problem for the day ahead. How she’s going to sit through four hours of repetitive and dull lectures, she still doesn’t know. 

She drags her cold, bare feet to the small kitchen, right across from her bedroom, and checks if by any chance there’s some coffee left from the previous day. 

But of course there isn’t. 

With a grunt, she decides that she will grab something to eat on her way to campus, and heads to the bathroom. Dry blood on her forehead and cheek immediately catches her eye when she looks back at her reflection, and she’s quick to wash it off her face. The cold water helps her wake up a little, but definitely not enough. 

The music that plays in the apartment next door is a song she's heard and a thousand times before, and quite honestly she’s had enough. Don’t they get tired of playing the same damn song every single morning? The chords are like a well worn path to her, one her brain follows too willingly. She finds herself absentmindedly humming to the annoying tune as she reaches for some clean clothes on her dresser, but she’s too tired to stop herself. 

Before leaving for the day, she tucks in a small gun inside her right boot and throws a lipstick on her bag — one that hides no velvety shade, but a sharp knife inside. Her must-haves before venturing outside. Perhaps not necessarily to go to college, but she’s learnt the hard way that threats are awaiting anywhere. So, better safe than sorry. 

One last look at her tired reflection, and she’s as ready as she could be that morning. 

Usually, she lets her mind breathe on her way to campus. It’s her brief moment to be at peace, to stop thinking about her ridiculous life and its consequences, to enjoy whatever song shuffles on her phone that day. However, today her brain is full. 

No matter how much she wants it to end, the image of Bellamy Blake is carved into her mind to the point where it is exclusively what she can think about. She almost can’t believe that man is the sole reason she may lose her job in just a few months — the reason why she may lose her  _ identity _ . 

She no longer remembers the Clarke before Eligius, and frankly, she doesn’t want to. 

It takes her about twenty minutes to make out the outline of campus from a distance, and in that moment she decides she’s had enough of thinking about him. She knows she’s not going to run into him just like that — it would be too coincidental. And if she does, well. The gun in her boot is already burning with desire to be used. 

She tightens the hold on her bag as she crosses the gates of campus, remembering then that she completely forgot to grab breakfast. Oh well. 

Campus isn’t the place to be hitwoman Clarke Griffin, and yet she no longer identifies herself as anything else. University is a place to meet new friends, make new bonds, to have space to become the 21-year-old version of herself she once wanted to be. It is a place to grow, mature, and pursue her dreams. At least that what all the brochures said, yet she feels none of that. 

“You,” in a swift movement, she grabs the back of Monty’s jacket and pulls him towards her until he’s walking besides her. She lowers her voice, “How’s the localisation device going?”

Monty looks around the busy hallway briefly before lowering his voice as well, “It’ll be ready tomorrow night, I believe,” he informs her, “Any luck finding him?”

Clarke arches an annoyed eyebrow, “What do you think?”

“I’ve heard he’s good,” Monty says, as if she doesn’t know. He’s about to cost her her job, for crying out loud, “His missions are pretty clean, and he’s never been caught on camera, either.”

“So, why does Diyoza know who he is?”

The boy shrugs, “Because it’s Diyoza.”

Which, fair enough. 

They keep walking together in silence until Clarke spots her first class at the end of the hallway. As she’s about to say goodbye, Monty speaks again, “I’ve also heard he’s never killed before.”

His words make her stop on her tracks, “What?”

How is it possible that a good hitman, the best apparently, hasn’t killed before?

“That’s some insider info from Raven, but I don’t know if it’s true.”

“It probably isn’t,” Clarke concludes, although Raven is rarely wrong about anything, “It doesn’t make any sense.”

Monty shrugs again, “He doesn’t really have to kill, if you think about it. Setting them up and letting police find them is a good strategy too.”

Clarke thinks about it, but the more she dwells on the idea, the less she understands it. Why wouldn’t a professional assassin kill his victims? 

“Well,” she adjusts her bag over her shoulder before giving him a small smile, “The less experienced he is, the easier it would be for me to get rid of him, right?”

Monty smiles back, because of course Clarke is excited about a hunt. And of course she’s going to execute it flawlessly. He pats her shoulder amicably, “You got this. I’ll see you later, Clarke.”

_ Yeah, I got this _ . 

She sighs, and glances quickly at the time on her phone. She has one minute left until Diana Sydney shuts the door of her class, and doesn’t let anybody else in. Thrilling. 

When she enters the lecture hall ten seconds before Sydney’s internal alarm goes off, she notices it’s almost completely full. She climbs all the way up the stairs to find an empty spot, and wishes with all her strength that spot isn’t next to Finn Collins. Two hours of furtive stares and awkward conversations last week had been more than enough. 

“Sit down, please,” Diana Sydney’s voice echoes through the lecturing hall as Clarke sits down, “We’ll begin shortly.”

It isn’t until that moment that she notices the man sitting behind Diana’s desk. His head is hidden behind a laptop, and the woman is constantly looking over his shoulder and pointing at the screen. She can’t help but arch a confused eyebrow. Isn’t it too late in the year for new professors to be introduced? 

“Okay, everyone. Please listen attentively,” she starts, grabbing the students’ attention immediately. Clarke sits back on her seat, grateful to have nobody next to her, and listens, “Today’s lesson will be a bit different, because I won’t be giving it myself,” the class immediately erupts into a fit of whispers, and Clarke resists the urge to roll her eyes. 

“I want to introduce you to our new TA, Mr. Blake.”

A new TA? Really? This means she’d have to put up with yet another arrogant man who thinks of himself as nothing less than a gifted erudite, constantly trying to prove that he’s better than everyone else. Seriously, last year’s TA was enough. That man was—

Wait. 

She feels her heart racing faster, each beat echoing in her head like a war drum. 

Blake?

_ Blake. _

“Shit,” she mutters under her breath, and hurries to take her phone out of the bag. 

This can’t be happening. 

“He will take over some of my classes this semester, so please give him a warm welcome,” Clarke could no longer process any of the words Diana was saying. She finally grabs the phone and unlocks it as quickly as she can, “Mr. Blake, the floor is yours.”

It takes her two seconds to open the picture Diyoza sent her last night, and when she does, her stomach falls to her feet. This can’t be real. 

“Hello, everyone. It’s nice to meet you all,” his voice is deeper than she expected, and she actually needs to blink a few times to confirm that this is real life. To confirm that it really is him. In front of her. In her classroom.

A small smile draws on his lips, “My name is Bellamy Blake and I will be teaching World History along with Professor Diana Sydney for the following months.” 

It’s him. It’s undoubtedly him. 

The man who stared right into her eyes last night, is now in the flesh in front of her. The reason why Eligius may not exist by the end of the year. The so-called best hitman in the game. The cause for Diyoza’s uncommon worry. Her main target. 

And she can’t kill him. 

Panic washes over her, and she debates whether she should leave the class before it’s too late. She won’t be able to sit through an hour of this, she knows that — so what’s the point? 

But then Diana leaves, and Bellamy says something that makes the whole class laugh, and before she knows it he’s already in too deep with his lesson and everyone around her is taking notes. Just great. 

She knows she can’t kill him here, and the smug smile on his face makes her think he knows it. But that’s impossible — surely he can’t know who she is, can he? Diyoza would’ve warned her about it. So she tries to pay attention, tries to concentrate on his deep voice and his exaggerated hand gestures, but it all becomes too much. 

This man is supposed to be dead. She’s supposed to shoot him in the head, but instead she’s sitting through one of his lectures, unable to do a thing about it. It feels unreal. 

For a second she debates whether this is really the man she’s looking for. Ultimately she decides she’s just stupid — his name matches, his physical appearance matches. Why is she overthinking this so fucking much?

Just when she thinks she’s run out of bad luck, forty minutes in, something happens. 

Even though she’s sitting at the back of the class, hidden away from view behind most of her classmates, Bellamy Blake locks eyes with her. Not once. Not twice. And three times are too many to believe it’s a coincidence. 

For a moment, she panics. This whole hunting thing will get a lot more complicated if he knows who she is, and what she is set to do. So she ducks her head down, eyes glued on her blank notes, and hopes she’s just imagining things. 

When the bell rings, she doesn’t move. She needs him to leave. But he doesn’t. She waits until the lecture hall has cleared up considerably before she gets up, painfully slowly, and heads down the stairs into oblivion. She has to get out of there  _ immediately _ . 

Mr. Blake has his back turned to her, and she can’t help but think how good of a moment it would be to take her gun out. 

_ No _ . 

She can’t rush this, or it will all go to hell. 

“Ms. Griffin.”

Her heart stops. 

Her name falls from his lips in a way that almost sounds forbidden, but the first thought that crosses her mind is how the hell does he know who she is. 

“Could you stay behind for a second?”

A couple of her female classmates throw her a dirty look, probably because how dare the new, hot TA want to speak to her after class and not to them. But her brain is completely blank, and it shouldn’t be. She should be alert, going over all the ways she can get out of there alive. 

She says nothing as she stays behind, a safe distance from his desk, and ponders how fast she can get her hands on her gun. Does he have one in his backpack as well? She takes her knife out from her bag and hides it up her sleeve just for good measure. 

Once everyone else has left the room, he finally turns around.

Up-close, it’s easier to tell it really is him. The man in the picture. And it’s terrifying, but in a thrilling way. 

He has tousled dark hair, which is thick and lustrous. His eyes are equally as dark, mesmerising flecks of silvery light performing ballets throughout. His face is strong and defined, and entirely covered in small freckles. They are  _ everywhere _ . The playful smile he had displayed during his lecture has now turned into a serious, hard line across his face. His lips are big and full, but she immediately darts her eyes away from them. His strong hands, slightly rough from killing, she guesses (or perhaps not, according to Monty) hold onto the edge of the desk as he stares deeply into her blue eyes. 

His smile etches its way back into his face before he speaks, “Clarke Griffin in the flesh.”

She swallows, and tries to put up her usual walls of smugness. But she wasn’t expecting this at all, “How do you know my name?”

He says nothing. Instead, he reaches into his backpack, pulls out his phone, and shows her the screen. 

Surveillance camera footage. It’s  _ her _ . 

“Nice work you did yesterday,” he says, clearly too amused by her shocked reaction, “Cut that man’s throat quite cleanly. You must be experienced. Aren’t you only twenty one?” 

“What the fuck do you want, Blake?” 

“To kill you.”

He knows who she is. Great. Is it possible that Indra has the same plan as Diyoza? To kill their best agent for a chance to win Polis? 

She internally shakes her head, as if she suddenly remembered who she really is. She’s an assassin, top of her game, and she doesn’t have to listen to any of this. She won’t be threatened by a nobody. 

“You’re not going to kill me at your workplace,” she smirks. Her characteristic smugness is back, “That wouldn’t look too good on your resume.”

He lets out a low chuckle that makes her blood boil, “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I know exactly where to kill you.”

The smirk never leaves her lips, “I’d like to see you try.”

Bellamy’s expression mimics her own until it doesn’t. In a swift movement, he turns them around until his whole body is pressing hers against the wooden desk, hand immediately wrapping around her throat. When he’s so dangerously close to her, she notices how big he actually is. Not that it changes anything — she’s taken down guys triple her size. 

His fingers wrap around the skin on her neck like it’s made of cotton and not flesh, roughly, and for a second she thinks he’s going to choke her to death. His eyes are piercing into hers, more intensely by the second, and she can’t decide what’s more overwhelming — his eyes on her or his big, calloused hand around her neck. 

After an eternity, he stops. 

Bellamy leans into her, hand still lingering her skin, and whispers, “Don’t bother with your final assignment for my class,” he says, “You won’t be alive by then.” 

This isn’t the first time one of her targets desperately wants to creep her out with something as empty as words. Desperation, that’s what he reeks of when he talks to her. Desperation to make her feel small and afraid, like she has nothing to do against him. Is she supposed to believe all this crap? 

The gun in her boot is aching to be used, but they both know she wouldn’t dare to shoot him at campus. Not because she doesn’t want to, but because her plans don’t include getting caught any time soon.

It takes her a second to get the lipstick - knife out of her sleeve, and another one to put the cold blade against the tanned skin of his neck. If Bellamy is taken aback by this unexpected turn, he doesn’t show it. 

“Nice knife, Princess,” he smirks, and she almost slashes his throat right there just for the stupid nickname, “You have a thing for necks as well?”

“Listen carefully,” she pushes the blade further into his skin, ignoring him, a hint of red appearing right away, “Touch a single hair on my head and I’ll blow your brains out. Are we clear?” 

“You won’t do shit,” the smirk on his lips has now turned into a thin line, and she can’t help but think she’s won just a little. 

“Don’t try me,” she says as a final warning before the door to the class opens unexpectedly. Just as fast as she had pushed the knife against his throat, she now jumps back into a safe distance from him. Her target, now her damn TA. Could this get any more fucking ridiculous?

“Mr. Blake, are you done here?”, Diana Sydney’s head pops into the class, her sweet smile serving as a sign that she hasn’t seen a thing. 

“Yes, sorry,” Bellamy goes back to professional mode, and Clarke guesses she should too, “Ms.Griffin here had some questions about the final assignment.”

She nods, just because she can’t afford to get caught, either. 

Diana smiles again, “It’s a bit too soon to think about that, isn’t it?”

“That’s what I told her,” Bellamy looks back at her, making her blood boil again, “You never know what’s going to happen.”

Clarke resists the urge to make a witty comeback that would set the alarms off in Diana’s head, and simply nods again, “Thank you for answering my questions, Mr. Blake. I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

She doesn’t look back as she leaves the class. She hears Diana talking to him, but she doesn’t want to listen.

Once outside, the cold air licks at her face and creeps under her clothes, spreading across her skin. But the weather is the last of her worries now. With chapped lips tinged with blue and gently chattering teeth, she wraps her thin coat around her tighter before getting her phone out. 

“Diyoza.”

She keeps walking quickly, and wonders if she would fall down on the freezing and slippery ground if she started running. She wonders if she’s following her. 

“Clarke?,” her voice is as worried as she expected it to be. She never calls her during school hours, “Everything alright?”

“No,” she looks back, the paranoia already hitting her every sense, “I know where Bellamy Blake is.”

“W-What? You know?”

“Yes,” her hands start shaking, “And he’s going to kill me.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m back! I hope you like this chapter 😊 I’ll publish the next one on Saturday.
> 
> Happy reading 💙
> 
> (Warnings at the end to avoid spoilers)

“You can go back to Clarke Griffin later. This is urgent.” 

He’s aware he’s definitely way above the speed limit, but the street is so empty and so quiet in the rainy night that it feels like he’s the last person on planet Earth. So he doesn’t slow down. 

The outline of the warehouse unfolds in front of him after a few minutes, the sign that he needs to go over his plan quickly. Bust them. Shoot Cadogan down. Let Indra finish the job. It should be easy enough. 

“There’s a slight problem with Clarke Griffin now,” he told his leader before leaving for the mission, earning a warning glare from the woman. He knows no problem is supposed to be a  _ problem _ for him, and he was expecting her to say that. So, he continued, “She’s my student.”

Indra stayed silent for a couple of seconds, as if she was meditating her reply through. Then, “Don’t kill her at campus and you should be fine.”

As he drives deeper into the industrial complex of Polis, he’s not sure of that anymore. Surely he never expected one of his victims to be a 21-year-old hitwoman, let alone one of his students, but he’s seen so many crazy, unexpected things over the past few months he’s not really as shocked as he should be. 

“You’ll mourn her for a couple of days and then go back to your usual routine.”

Indra’s words buzz inside his mind as he charges his guns, and he can almost picture the memorial at campus as he gets out of the car and into the rain. He’d be standing there in solemnity, hopefully not giving any kind of speech, and live forever with the fact that he killed one of his students. 

But the truth is, he doesn’t really want to kill her. 

Bellamy still doesn’t know how he’s gotten so far in this business without taking anyone’s life, but he also isn’t going to question it. Well, perhaps that isn’t entirely true. He’s sure he’s killed indirectly — a bullet in the arm or leg that made his victims lose too much blood too quickly, but that isn’t his fault. They go in teams for a good reason.

So far he’s gotten away with it. When he’s supposed to kill, he calls somebody else to finish the job for him — usually Echo. She doesn’t care about his motives, and she doesn’t ask, which makes her the perfect ally. 

But he’s the only member of Trikru in charge of the Clarke Griffin mission, in charge of killing their biggest threat, and he has no way out of this one. So, if his first mortal victim has to be his 21-year-old student, then so be it. 

Once he closes the car door behind him though, all thoughts about the girl disappear. His mind is focused. 

Second Dawn has been around for years, according to Indra’s insiders. A group of around ten people who prepare for doomsday under the skilled supervision of their Shepherd, Bill Cadogan. Quite the weird but inoffensive cult, if you ask him. But now it’s been reported that its leader has completely lost his mind, and just last week he kidnapped at least two individuals. He’s also known for forcing his Disciples to remain part of Second Dawn, forbidding their abandoning, and one of them has allegedly been killed for daring to confront him.

He’s excited for this one. Corrupt politicians and dauntless fanatics are his speciality. 

The entrance to the warehouse is deserted and quiet when he crosses it, and he can’t help but think that Bill Cadogan is a victim of his own paranoia. He already feels bad for having to shoot him on the leg, but oh well. He has a job to do, and he’s there to complete it. 

Stepping into the old building is like stepping into a whole other world. Its walls seem to shudder in the wind and sway as the rain attacks it.

It is empty, but for a few obsolete pieces of rusted factory equipment, which he can’t identify. How long has this warehouse been abandoned for? Just as it was outside, the inside looks like something out of a dystopian movie, Bellamy thinks, the corrugated walls as rusted and useless as the equipment they house. Rain drips down through cracks in the ceiling.

And it’s silent. Too silent.

He steps further into the building, looking around as he leaves wet footprints on the floor in his wake. His hand reaches up to the hearing device on his ear, "Isn’t there supposed to be a meeting taking place over here?" he asks Indra on the other line, turning back to face the doorway just in case. The abandoned factory seems like an odd place to do much of anything, let alone a suitable place to gather a cult and its activities.

“You should be able to see it now,” Indra’s voice denotes that something isn’t right if he can’t follow the plan, but Bellamy thinks that perhaps Cadogan chose to change locations that night. 

“I’ll keep looking,” he informs her, and continues moving forward. 

Because his eyes aren’t really helping, he relies on his ears to listen for sounds, for any hint of a voice, but after a few minutes it’s pretty evident that the warehouse is completely empty. 

He’s missed them. 

He mentally curses himself, because as much of a lunatic as Cadogan might seem, he’s rather difficult to locate, and him not being there just means they’ve missed a golden chance to stop him. But he’s not going to leave the place without scanning it further. 

There are no doors separating the rooms on the ground floor, he notices. Yet he finds them a few feet into each room often sprayed with unreadable graffiti. Surprisingly most of the furniture had survived with minimal damage, only a few scratches and chips to their name. There is only one rickety staircase leading to the first floor, and for a second he considers going up. It’s pretty clear that this part of the warehouse is empty, so what if Cadogan is actually upstairs? 

He has nothing to lose.

The first floor is in a considerably better state than the ground floor, with all doors still in their rightful places. A thick layer of dust settles on everything in sight, giving the place an atmosphere of being untouched for many years, unlike downstairs where the dust hangs in the air like a thick blanket.

Nothing catches his eye. Everything seems untouched, and he thinks it’s quite unlikely that Cadogan even knows another floor existed. 

But then, he smells it. 

One could mistake it with a rusty metal piece, but that pungent smell is too familiar to him. He knows exactly what it is, and it can’t mean good news. 

He opens the door to his right. Nothing. 

He opens the door in front of him. Empty. 

He opens the door to his left. 

Blood. 

Blood everywhere. 

He doesn’t rely on his night vision anymore, and instead turns on the flashlight. And he sees it. 

Bill Cadogan lies dead on the cold, hard floor at his feet, one shot in the back of his head, then shot multiple times in the back. A few feet away, all nine of his Disciples, all shot to death and still bleeding. This must be recent, he thinks. 

His heart starts beating faster than he thought it would be possible, “Indra, we have a problem.”

The woman takes less than a second to respond, “What is it?”

“Cadogan and his Disciples are already dead,” he breathes out, diverting his eyes from the grotesque scene in front of him. He feels nauseous all of a sudden. 

“ _ Shit _ ,” she hears her mutter, because even though the goal was exactly this, they aren’t the ones getting the money from it, “We’ll find out who the hell did this.”

It takes his brain a moment to click, yet he still doesn’t think his suspicions are correct. They  _ can’t _ be. She isn’t good enough to—

“Fancy seeing you here, Professor.”

Of course it’s her. 

He turns around in time to see her smirk, his defeated features amusing her more by the second, “Did you do this?”

It’s an obvious question, he knows that. But for some reason he still can’t process someone as petite and seemingly weak can shoot ten people to death and still have room for more. For  _ him _ . 

“Do you like it?”, her hand reaches her back pocket, and in a second her gun is directly aimed at him, “I hope you do, because the same fate awaits you.”

The second his brain registers the gun, he takes out his. He’s never been afraid of threats, and this isn’t going to be the one exception, “Well, Ms. Griffin,” he starts, voice denoting a confidence that isn’t quite there yet, “Now that you’re here, and given that this is no lecture hall, I guess I can finally kill you.” 

Clarke smirks, “I’d like to see you try.” 

The cold metal makes greyer the skin of her hand, as if her blood ran directly from the gun. She can hear the beat of her heart so clearly for a second she thinks he can hear it too. And for a brief moment the sound floods her ears until a loud bang replaces it. 

Barely a second to react, Clarke throws herself on the ground to dodge the bullet. Her fingers instantly pull the trigger, and it is at moments like this when she’s thankful for Diyoza’s exhaustive training, or else she would’ve trouble firing without really seeing her target. 

She doesn’t hit him, but she knows she was close enough to let him know she didn’t come to play. 

Hiding behind some old furniture, she waits until his firing rampage has ended so she can shoot him without risking her own safety. She’s not planning on coming out of this with the slightest scratch. When he stops, probably to recharge, she takes the opportunity and barely misses his leg by a few centimetres. 

It doesn’t take him long to fire back, and when three bullets pass her by, one of them not even that close, it suddenly hits her.

“You don’t want to kill me,” she thinks out loud, visibly startling him. 

Bellamy blinks and aims his gun at her again, but doesn’t pull the trigger, “You’re wrong.”

_ Bang _ . 

Missed shot. 

“You’ve never killed anyone, have you?”

Monty’s words have never made more sense. As she looks into his deep, focused eyes, she sees it clearly. He’s good. He’s a good shooter, and a good hitman. If he really wanted her dead, she’d be bleeding out on the ground by now. 

“And aren’t you lucky that is the case?”

She fires back, but he dodges the bullet. 

She never expected him to be so open about it. In her eyes, he has just admitted weakness. Something inside of her tells her he’s not going to kill her, that she’s not going to be his first victim. Just as if she had voiced her thoughts, he says, “But I believe it’s time to break this dry spell.”

The bullets are scattered like seeds of destruction around the ground, oblivious to the blood that still emanates from some of the bodies there. If Bellamy stopped to analyse his surroundings carefully, he’s pretty sure he would throw up. 

He fires again. He looks at her, piercing eyes and messy hair, determined grip, and can’t help but think that a bullet in the wrong place might be the cheapest way by far to dispatch a human being. For less than a cent you can kill someone irreplaceable. You can take someone off the Earth permanently, be the one their nightmares lead to. Does she have a family that cares about her? Friends that would miss her? 

And just like that, she runs out of bullets. 

Clarke is quick to throw her gun away and take her knife out, still unsure of what actual damage it can cause. It’s not exactly a fair and balanced situation, but she knows she can make it work. She’s just killed ten people not even an hour ago, and he hasn’t ever taken a life. Pretty easy to guess who’d come out a winner, if you ask her. 

Bellamy fires again, trying his luck one more time, but just as if the universe was pranking him, he runs out of bullets as well. Whatever. He’s always been better at hand-to-hand combat. 

She charges at him then, confident in her every move. He almost feels bad for being in this position, fighting someone who’s a lot younger and smaller than he is, but then Clarke brings her right forearm up, forms a fist with her left, and throws it at his jaw. He can suddenly taste blood in his mouth. 

Bellamy steps back, balancing his weight on his right foot, and throws his fist out in a curved punch at her face. She dodges it just barely. 

His eyes catch the glimpse of the knife in her hand, and he knows he needs to get rid of it before she imminently tries to stab him. So, in a quick movement, his hand is wrapped around her wrist, barely giving her any time to react, and he flips her backwards so that her back is pressed against his chest. 

She smells of fresh blood. 

Clarke tries to fight him, but his grip is too strong. She’s sure she’ll have a painful bruise in the morning, but it’ll be nothing compared to what she had to endure in the past year. Nothing compared to what she’s going to do to him for this. 

He twists her wrist, and she resists the urge to scream. It fucking hurts, and she’s going to slash his throat for it. The sound of the small knife falling to the ground echoes across the empty warehouse.

“You really think you have a chance against me, Princess?”, he whispers into her ear, the sound of his voice making her spine curve. 

Clarke swallows, “Please. I know I do.”

She releases herself from his grip, elbowing him hard on the stomach. He grunts, because it stings too damn much, but he’s quickly back on his feet again. A stupid kid will not be the end of him.

_ Bang _ .

His mind is blank for a second, perhaps for longer. 

He can no longer hear anything, and it all moves in slow motion in front of him. He looks to his right in time to see a slim figure in the distance, a man he thinks, pointing a gun at them in the shadows. A trigger has been pulled. 

Bellamy still doesn’t know why he did it. But his eyes dart back to Clarke in front of him, her fist up in the air ready to punch him again, and his first instinct is to pull her body towards his. So he does. 

“What the fuck!”, he hears her scream, but he says nothing as he throws himself backwards with Clarke in his arms, pulling her on top of him into a mess of tangled legs and arms. 

“Hey!”, he knows the man has a full-functioning gun, and yet he gets back up on his feet and grips at his own weapon, even if it’s useless now. He doesn’t know that, “Who are you?”, he shouts.

But the man doesn’t fire again, nor does he speak back to him. Loud footsteps echo through the abandoned warehouse until silence washes over them once again. Just like that, the man is gone. 

Bellamy looks back at Clarke, who’s still sitting on the ground with an unreadable expression on her face, and then he sees it.

“You’re bleeding,” he points out, earning an automatic eye roll from her. 

The clothes she’s wearing are dark, but her hand is over her left shoulder, completely covered in fresh blood. She winces as she gets back on her feet, and he resists the urge to help her up. He should be taking advantage of this. She’s hurt, and he would probably not have an easier chance to kill her than now. And yet his feet are anchored to the ground beneath him. He can’t find the will to move. 

Without another word, without another sign of weakness, Clarke starts walking towards the back of the room. She kneels down a few feet away, and picks up a small object. 

“Is this yours?”

Unsure, Bellamy steps forward until he’s close enough to see it. It’s a bullet, but it doesn’t belong to Trikru, “No.”

“Great,” she says, and puts it inside the pocket of her jeans. 

He arches a confused eyebrow, “Why are you taking that for?”

“As if I’m going to tell you.”

Which, fair enough. His eyes dart back to her red hand again, and he sees that the blood is now dripping from her shoulder to her feet. He knows this is wrong. He knows he shouldn’t give a damn about her wellbeing, and yet, “You’ll bleed to death.”

Clarke looks at him carefully, a hint of camouflaged surprise in her eyes, “Wasn’t that kind of the point?” 

It was. It really was. He shouldn’t be talking to her now, and he knows it— he should be taking advantage of the situation, shoot her in the other shoulder and let her bleed to death. He’s done that to other people before. That’s what he is being paid for, and that is the ultimate goal of this whole mission. And yet he can’t bring himself to do it. 

“Not like this,” he says, partly because he knows that killing her now would be a low blow. It feels like cheating, almost. And while a win is a win, he just can’t. He can’t, “Where do you live?” 

Clarke panics for a second, “We’re not doing this.”

“You’re bleeding too much.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“You can barely stand.”

She locks eyes with him, stares lingering probably for longer than they should have, but she can’t bring herself to care. Her shoulder stings like never before, and her clothes and hand are already soaking wet with her own blood. She can barely drag her feet across the ground. 

Bellamy Blake is just standing there, looking at her as silently and yet as loudly as she’s looking at him, and she doesn’t understand why she’s not dead already. Is he really not going to shoot her? To choke her to death, at least? 

“You shouldn’t be helping me,” she tells him, because it’s true. What would his boss say if she found out?

He knows this. He’s painfully aware of this, “And yet here I am.”

A pause. Then, “I’m not telling you where I live.”

Even though her words make complete sense, he rolls his eyes, “You’re losing too much blood. I’m willing to take you to the hospital, if that’s what you need.”

“I can take care of it myself,” she’s done it countless times, and with worse-looking injuries. A bleeding wound on the shoulder is a piece of cake. 

“Great. Let’s go, then,” he sighs, slowly losing patience, “We can go to my place. I don’t care. But let’s get out of here.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“Alright. Enough.”

Clarke’s heart skips a beat as he closes the distance between them, thinking that he’s finally made up his mind and he’s going to kill her. But he doesn’t. Instead, he leans down until his arms are wrapped around her legs, picking her up easily and throwing her over his shoulder. 

Before her brain can fully process what’s happening, he’s  _ carrying _ her. 

“Put me down!”, she protests, hitting his back as hard as she can. He doesn’t flinch, “Bellamy!”

It’s the first time she addresses him by his name, and it feels weird for both of them. None of his targets had ever called him Bellamy before, but again, he had never helped a bleeding victim out before. Clarke continues to punch him until he reaches his car and settles her down next to it. For a second, he thinks she is going to run away. But she’s lost too much blood and she knows it — she wouldn’t get too far, anyway. 

So, unsure, she gets inside the car slowly, knife in hand, although Bellamy thinks she might not be able to do much with it in her current state. But he doesn’t say that outloud. 

Once he’s sitting behind the wheel, he turns his head to look at her. She isn’t looking at him, “Tell me where to go.”

“I’m not telling you where I live,” she repeats, stubbornly. 

He resists the urge to sigh in desperation, “Just tell me where I can drop you off.” 

“You’re seriously playing Uber right now? With the girl you’re supposed to kill?”

“Believe me, I’m way more surprised than you are, Princess,” even though she didn’t tell him where to go, he starts the engine anyway, “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

She groans, because what else can she do? She’s stuck in a car with a man she’s supposed to kill and who’s supposed to kill her, and yet he’s taking her home because he doesn’t want her to bleed to death. Is this some kind of stupid prank? 

Her hand is still covering the wound on her shoulder, and she’s aware that the blood is now everywhere on his car seat. She smirks, “What would your students say if they saw your car covered in blood?”

Bellamy looks at her, then at the mess she’s sat on, “I’d tell them something cool, like a pregnant woman gave birth in my car or something.”

She raises an eyebrow, “Right. Because that’s very cool.”

“To me,” he shrugs, and she swears she can discern the subtle hint of a smile on his lips. She looks away. 

“Ark Avenue,” she blurts out then, and it takes him a second to realise what the whole conversation is about. 

He doesn’t say another word as he changes directions. The road is deserted, given that it’s pretty late at night, and it almost feels as if they are the last people on Earth. Soon, their surroundings change. He hasn’t been around Ark Avenue at all, and for some reason he finds it strange that someone like Clarke would live in such a… questionable neighbourhood. 

Stretching out of sight on either side of the road are semi detached houses, each with a path running down the side. They are identical, with their small upper windows and narrow porches. Some still show the tell-tale signs of multiple occupation: dishevelled lawns, peeling paint and drawn secretive curtains. But Clarke doesn’t say anything, so he keeps driving. 

He’s almost relieved that she doesn’t live in such a place. 

“That building over there,” she says suddenly, and it doesn’t take him long to see what building she’s referring to. It’s pretty much the only one among all the houses, and yet it looks equally as unkempt. 

He gets out of the car before she does, and proceeds to open the door for her, but she’s already trying to get out. 

“Do you really live here?”, he asks her as he looks around, not because he’s eager to make small talk, but because he’s actually just a tiny bit concerned. As far as he knows, this is one of the most unsafe neighbourhoods in Polis. 

Clarke struggles to walk over to the apartment complex as she looks at him in disbelief, “I’ve just killed ten people like, an hour ago. I’m not in any danger here.”

Which maybe is true, he thinks to himself. He bets her neighbours are more in danger than she is, if he’s being realistic. She probably has a collection of guns and sharpened knives hidden in her closet. 

So, he walks in silence behind her and she doesn’t acknowledge him as she climbs up the stairs. Bellamy isn’t sure if he should follow her all the way up to her apartment, but nobody is stopping him. 

Clarke struggles again with her keys, but she finally manages to open the door. She leaves it open behind her, so he takes it as an invitation, although it probably isn’t. 

He’s unsure of what to do while she cleans up her wound. He considers snooping around, but then he decides that he shouldn’t push his luck so much. Standing in the open space between the kitchen and the living room, he notices the apartment is rather tiny, and it doesn’t have a lot of personal touches to it. He doesn’t know what he was expecting from a young assassin, but definitely not this. It almost feels like nobody actually lives here. 

Clarke doesn’t have a single picture with her family or friends, a single item on display that would give away the kind of person she is. The kind of stuff she likes. The only thing he sees is a single book on the coffee table — and it’s one Diana Sydney recommended for her course. So, she’s taking her studies seriously. That’s all he can decipher about her from her apartment. 

“You’re still here,” her voice almost startles him from behind. 

“And you’re still alive,” he teases her, noticing how her shoulder is completely patched up now. He wonders how she knows to do all that random, medical stuff, and why. 

“So are you,” she talks back before making her way over to the couch. She sits down, face so still it’s quite obvious that she’s fighting to avoid showing weakness in front of him. Her shoulder fucking hurts, “I’m not inviting you to stay.”

He puts his hands in his pockets as he watches her carefully, “I’m not planning to stay.”

“Good. Because I don’t think you—”

Clarke stops mid-sentence, sight going completely blurry. All she can feel is her shoulder burning, her heart beating hard, and she’s very much aware that a man who’s supposed to kill her is standing just a few feet away. She knows exactly what’s going to happen, and she knows she’ll be defenceless. 

She’s never been one to accept defeat, but this time her whole body gives up. 

She swallows, “Alright. It hurts a lot. My shoulder,” she manages to let out. She can’t look at him. She can’t see anything, sight completely dark, “And I’m going to pass out. You can kill me if you want to, but that’d be kinda lame.”

“Clarke…”

And just then, all her senses shut down. 

She feels nothing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: explicit mentions of murder, use of guns and knives, mentions of blood.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is pretty much like a transition, but very important to understand Bellamy’s POV and especially Clarke’s. I hope you like it!
> 
> Also, the incredibly talented @swainslake on Twitter made a STUNNING Bellarke edit based on this fic and it literally looks like a movie trailer 🥺 I’m so honoured and thankful!! You can check it out on her account!! Also, remember to follow me on Twitter (@PLISAwrites) for updates on this story, sneak peeks and much more 👀
> 
> Happy reading! 💙
> 
> Warnings at the end to avoid spoilers.

Light. 

She sees a dim light at the end of a long tunnel, but she’s pretty sure her eyes are still closed. Is she dead?

It takes her a moment to recall the events of the previous night, and when she does, she’s almost completely sure she’s dead. There’s no way Bellamy left her apartment without killing her, so that’s probably it. Although she’s always associated light with something good, heaven maybe, and she’s certain that she’s not going to end up there. 

So, wait. Perhaps she’s not dead yet. 

Slowly, she forces herself to open her eyes. It feels like they’re glued to her skin, fighting to stay closed. Finally, a blurry picture unfolds in front of her. The sun is creeping up from the small window by her side, and that lamp in the ceiling… It all comes back to her. She’s in her bedroom. 

But she passed out in the living room, she remembers that now. 

_Bellamy_.

She gets up immediately, her head pounding loudly and her shoulder still burning. That’s when she remembers the previous night vividly. 

Diyoza had assigned her the Cadogan case weeks ago, but it wasn’t until last night that they could finally locate him accurately. He was rather sneaky for a lunatic. Just as she was about to leave, a car appeared at the entrance of the warehouse, and she knew it couldn’t be good news. So she waited in the dark, watching this person’s every move, until she couldn’t help herself any longer. 

Blake Blake was just _right there_. She wasn’t going anywhere without shooting him first. 

And then, everything changed. Out of nowhere, somebody else shot her. _Shot her_. Somebody else wanted her dead, but who? She didn’t see their face, couldn’t focus on anything but her pain and her blood. 

The most shocking of the situation wasn’t that she had been about to die for the very first time since she started in the business, but the fact that Bellamy was the reason she was still alive. _Bellamy Blake_. 

He had pushed her forwards, making the bullet hit her shoulder and not her heart. He had taken her home before she bled to death, instead of ending her life right there. And now, he had left her apartment without taking yet another chance to kill her. 

This had to be some kind of prank. 

When she enters the kitchen, something catches her eye. In the stove there’s a piece of paper, a note. She gets closer, winces at the pain caused by her movements. 

_‘If you’re reading this I guess you’re alive. Lucky you. I had to go back to class — you know, being a Professor and all. Take it easy today. I’ll keep trying to kill you tomorrow._

_\- B’_

She needs to read the note over twice before her brain can process that assassin Bellamy Blake put her passed out body to bed completely safely and left her a fucking note. Her head starts to spin. 

Suddenly, she feels dizzy, all the images and feelings from the previous nights hitting her at once. She jumps into the shower, carefully watching her shoulder, and tries to forget.

Her toes flinch as they touch the cold ceramic floor. Her mind is in shreds — she’s sure she would never get that picture out of her mind. The bullet in her flesh. The river of dark blood pouring from her body. She’s seen worse on other people, but never on her. She turns the dial, old and metallic, releasing thousands of lukewarm drops, darkening her hair and trickling down her back. Her eyes fall close over and over, each time showing her the images like vivid photographs.

She needs to call Diyoza. 

Once she’s out of the shower, she dials her number and puts the phone on speaker as she dries out her body with a clean towel. She can hear her heartbeat, pounding loudly in her ears. 

“Clarke,” voice unmistakable, Diyoza has a hint of worry in her words, “Why didn’t you report back last night? Is Cadogan dead?”

Clarke swallows, “Cadogan is dead.”

“Good.”

“But something else happened.”

She updates her immediately, and the silence from the other line is more telling than she would’ve liked. Diyoza knows she’s in trouble, that Eligius is in trouble, and this was probably the last thing she wanted to hear. 

“Let me get this straight,” the woman says, “Bellamy Blake didn’t kill you because… you were injured?”

Clarke knows how ridiculous that sounds, but she nods, “He said it wouldn’t be fair. Something like that.”

Diyoza sighs heavily from the other line, “I’m not even going to try to understand this whole situation,” she admits, “I’m glad you’re alive. I’m sending a car over to your apartment right now.”

“Okay.”

As she puts down the phone, her eyes catch the note he wrote, lying still on the stove. And it reminds her yet again — somebody tried to kill her. 

Last night, someone other than Bellamy Blake wanted her dead, and was very close to achieving it. A light turns inside her brain, and she moves as fast as she can towards her jacket. Sure enough, there it is. 

To a normal eye, it might look like an usual bullet, but Clarke knows it’s much more than that. It isn’t the first time Raven Reyes has identified a target based on the weapons they use, and she hopes she can work her magic on this one too. 

The truth is, her brain can’t stop spiralling down a dark hole of complete uncertainty. She’s never been caught before, and she doubts nobody even knows who she is. Sure enough, if they were to uncover an assassin, one of their last options would be a 21-year-old student. And yet this man knows exactly who she is. 

The most troubling thing is that she doesn’t know why he wants her dead. Perhaps somebody else asked him to do it? Bellamy didn’t seem to know who he was, so she immediately rules Trikru out. 

And yet his motives seem insignificant, because reality hits her for real, and she’s just become aware that she has not only one, but two targets on her back now. 

She’s used to having none.

Peeping out her window, she sees the car Diyoza usually sends to pick her up, and moments later she’s out of the door. 

_“You’ve never killed anyone, have you?”_

_“And aren’t you lucky that is the case?”_

Once inside the vehicle, flashes from the previous night play inside her head like a movie, and she’s unable to stop thinking. The tires make their monotonous hiss over the rain-washed highway, and the air that makes its way through the filters isn’t warm enough for her liking. She wraps her jacket around her form tightly, the bullet burning inside her pocket. 

Her face feels tight, like smiling just isn’t an option today. Not as if she has many reasons to be happy, anyway. Her usual calm has been replaced by a carousel of spiralling thoughts, each one more worrying than the last. 

She’s really going to die. 

If Bellamy won’t kill her, then surely this new threat will. He almost had, in fact. 

She tries to convince herself that her unusual anxiety is a product of uncertainty, of the fact that she’s never been in such imminent danger before. She can control this. Diyoza will keep her safe. 

The entrance to Eligius headquarters had never felt more unappealing, and as she goes down the stairs she thinks she’s actually going to throw up. 

_Calm down, Clarke. It’s just paranoia._

“There’s our girl,” Diyoza’s unmistakable voice is the first thing she hears as the door opens for her. 

“Hey, you okay?”, Raven asks, immediately leaving her spot at the workshop and sprinting towards her. 

Clarke nods, “I’m alive. That’s something, right?” 

Diyoza gives her a look that can only mean one thing, and she looks down at her feet, “You said you had a bullet.”

She hands the tiny item to Raven, who wastes no time inspecting it, “Piece of cake,” she smirks, before winking at her and going back to her post. Last time it took her under an hour to identify a killer based on a bullet. Clarke is pretty sure she can do it in less than thirty minutes this time. 

Once the girl is gone, Diyoza wastes no time either, “Tell me more about Bellamy Blake.”

And so she does. She tells her that he’s her new TA, that he immediately knew who she was. That he wants to kill her — or wanted to, she’s not sure anymore. She tells her how he appeared at the warehouse last night to kill Cadogan, how she just couldn’t leave without getting rid of him for good. 

How he didn’t kill her when he had it the easiest. 

“He knows where I live,” she admits, part of her afraid of Diyoza’s reaction. The disapproval in her eyes is more than evident, but Clarke also knows that she’s grateful that she’s alive. 

The woman stays silent for a few minutes, a hand over her mouth, eyes lost in thought far away from that place. Clarke can almost hear her thinking.

“I guess we don’t need that localisation device anymore,” she mutters, and Clarke nods softly, “But we might need to find you a new place.”

She’s not heartbroken by the idea, honestly. She doesn’t spend that much time at home anyway, doesn’t even feel all that safe there. She doesn’t feel safe anywhere anymore. 

Diyoza proceeds to inspect her wounded shoulder, and calls Jackson in so he can check if it’s healing properly. He tells her that he’s impressed by her medical skills, just like always, and she politely thanks him just like every time. Her mind inevitably travels to her mother, who used to be a doctor before she… 

A shiver goes down her spine, and she forces herself to shut her mind down. 

It turns out, Clarke was right. Around twenty minutes later, she catches Raven’s unmissable ponytail by the corner of her eye, and judging by the proud smile on her face, she found something. 

She looks at both Diyoza and Clarke, “Come with me.”

They stand in front of her computer, a bunch of tabs opened, and Clarke is too exhausted to figure out what they display. Raven starts, “One good thing Eligius does is that we use generic weapons and bullets for our missions. We also can figure out how to read bullets, but that's merely a plus,” Diyoza can’t help but smirk, “Other organisations aren’t that smart, I’m afraid.”

She clicks the first tab, showing a detailed scan of the bullet. Clarke blinks a couple of times, immediately recognising the microscopic symbol on one of its sides — _Azgeda_. 

“This bullet belongs to Azgeda. They make their own weapons because they believe they’re more efficient,” Raven shakes her head, “What this proves is that they’re more stupid, but whatever.”

“So this man belongs to Azgeda,” Clarke interrupts. 

“Let me get there,” the girl opens yet another tab next to the previous ones, “This bullet looked familiar, so I checked in the database. I was pretty sure we had confiscated Azgeda weapons before — and I was right. Turns out our agents recovered two other identical bullets in previous crime scenes. And we have footage of those.”

Clarke swallows, “We have a suspect?”

Raven smirks, “We have a suspect.”

Another tab. This time, from a CCTV camera. She recognises the scene in front of her — one of the Senators was injured that day, she couldn’t remember who, in a cross-fire. Nobody got arrested. 

Raven zooms in into a blond-haired man she can’t recognise, “Ladies and gentlemen, Paxton "Graveyard" McCreary.” 

“Graveyard,” Clarke repeats, her heart suddenly beating faster. She shouldn’t be freaking out over this. She’s taken down many dangerous men and women — a stupid nickname shouldn’t be making her shiver. And yet it is. 

Diyoza sighs next to her, “Are you one hundred percent sure this is the man trying to kill Clarke?”

“When have I ever been wrong?”, Raven frowns, but the look on Diyoza’s face is telling her that she needs to elaborate further, “Our database is _infinite_. His bullets don’t match anyone else’s. He’s the only one that uses them. It’s him.” 

“ _Fuck_.”

Clarke turns around, confused and alarmed, in time to watch as Diyoza runs a hand through her tired face. She’s never seen her like this. Never this defeated. 

“What’s wrong?”, she asks. Normally, she wouldn’t, but this is about the man who’s trying to kill her. She needs to know all the information, no matter how irrelevant. 

The woman looks at her, then at Raven. It almost feels like she wants to get the words out, but she just can’t. 

“Do you know him?”, Raven frowns, impatient. 

Diyoza nods, “Okay. Well. Here goes nothing,” she sighs for what felt like the millionth time that day, and speaks again, “We used to work together, long ago. He’s… he’s Hope’s father.”

The room falls silent, and Clarke fights the urge to send Raven a shocked look. But the girl isn’t even looking at her — her mouth is partly opened in disbelief, eyes glued to the woman in front of her. 

“You’re joking,” she states. 

“I wish I was.”

“But you’re no longer with him.”

Diyoza shakes her head, “He’s not even in Hope’s life anymore. But he’s agreed to stay away from me, from Eligius. For our daughter’s sake.”

Raven frowns, “So why is he after Clarke? Doesn’t he know she’s part of your organisation?”

“Perhaps not,” she shrugs, “But there must be something else. I _feel_ like there’s something else.”

Clarke has never felt so lost in a conversation. The words fly at such a high speed in front of her she’s unable to understand anything. Her mind starts spiralling again, and she forces herself to bring her head back to the ground before panic kicks in once again. 

“You think someone hired him to kill Clarke,” Raven concludes, and she feels like an outsider in a conversation about _her_ life, “But he’s using Azgeda equipment.”

“I don’t know. Not right now. It might be a mislead. All that I know is that McCreary is a dangerous man,” Diyoza responds, “He’s good because he’s insane. He fears nothing, and that’s why he’s a threat.”

Clarke swallows. The situation is getting more bizarre by the second. 

“What do we do, then?”, she asks, unsure if she wants to hear the answer. 

Diyoza doesn’t hesitate, “We kill him.”

“You don’t want to find out who sends him?”, Raven questions. 

“We don’t have time for that. I’d rather keep Clarke alive.” 

The emergency in Diyoza’s voice makes her anxiety levels rise back up. But she needs to keep her cool. She can’t break down here, not in front of her boss. 

So she swallows down the panic as the older woman speaks again, “I’m sending Murphy and Luna over right now.” 

Right after her words, she starts to feel it, building like an unstoppable snowball in the pit of her stomach. She can’t concentrate on anything else, doesn’t even notice Raven and Diyoza leaving her side. Her heart starts beating harder and faster, adrenaline levels rise. The arguments in her head get so fast and so disturbing that her brain shuts down my body. She feels like she’s going to explode. 

“Diyoza, wait!” 

She can’t hold it in any longer. She’s freaking out inside, completely breaking down, and she can’t have two targets on her back. She can’t. 

The woman turns around in time to see her blank face, but before she can ask her if she’s feeling alright, Clarke speaks again, “I need to ask you something.”

This might be the boldest, dumbest idea she’s ever had, and maybe she’s just letting the panic take the best of her, but she’s feeling like she’s drowning, desperate to come back up for air. And she can’t live like this for any longer. 

“We need an alliance with Trikru.”

Diyoza blinks, not quite believing what she’s just said, “We need a what, now?”

She has no time to feel stupid, even if she can’t believe the words that have just left her mouth, “A cease-fire agreement. _Something_ ,” she’s almost begging for it, but she doesn’t care anymore, “Listen, I know this sounds completely unproportional. But we need to kill this McCreary guy, and I can’t afford having two targets on my back.” 

“I hear you, Clarke, but—”

“Diyoza,” her voice breaks, and damn it. She’s never meant to show weakness, not like this. When her next thought hits hers, she has to blink back the tears, “I’m going to die.”

The woman’s expression is serious, stare stone cold as she scans her eyes, almost as if she’s waiting for Clarke to break down under her gaze. But she doesn’t. 

“I can talk to Bellamy Blake,” Clarke offers, because there’s nothing else she can think of. 

“And what makes you think he’ll agree to this?”

Nothing, really. In fact, she doubts he will. He has a mission, just like McCreary, and that is to kill her. He would never say yes to being her ally.

But he’s already spared her life once, and perhaps he’d do it again. 

“Azgeda is a common enemy to both Trikru and Eligius,” she suddenly adds, her brain lighting up again after all the internal chaos, “I can convince him to help us eliminate their best hitman, then go back to trying to kill each other. May the best organisation win.”

“We don’t know for sure if McCreary works for Azgeda,” Diyoza points out. 

“He doesn’t have to know that.” 

After a silence that feels like an eternity, the woman finally speaks, “Alright. If you think this is going to work.”

She doesn’t, “I can try.”

Diyoza sends her a look that she knows all too well, “Then do your best, Griffin.” 

* * *

It feels strange walking down the crowded hallways of campus with a bullet hole on the shoulder, but nobody is really aware of that. 

She strolls towards his class, a place she knows she’ll for sure find him. She’s pretty sure she looks like shit — she’s been shot not even twenty four hours ago, for crying out loud. But she doesn’t really care. 

She’s there for one thing, and one thing only. 

To achieve the impossible. 

Clarke waits outside the class until the bell rings, and then waits a bit longer as her classmates exit the lecture hall. Some give them a look that she deciphers as ‘You have some nerve showing up here after missing class’, but she’s unbothered. She’s not there to make friends, anyway. 

Once she makes sure the coast is clear, she peeps inside the classroom. Sure enough, there he is. 

Bellamy Blake is leaning over the desk, glasses on, typing something away on his computer. If she didn’t know the truth, she would buy his whole act. She can only imagine the look on everyone’s faces if they found out their beloved, unbelievably hot TA is in fact a skilled hitman who’s trying to kill one of his students. 

She can’t help but smirk at the chaotic scenario. 

“Knock knock,” she says, back to her usual smugness tone, making her presence known. 

Bellamy’s head turns towards her immediately, shoulders relaxing when he sees it’s her. His attention goes back to the screen, “I thought I told you to take it easy today.”

She starts walking towards him, “You also told me you’d go back to killing me tomorrow,” she reminds him, “I hope that part still stands.”

He ignores her for a bit longer, but she has all the time in the world. When he sees that she’s not going away, he sighs, a hint of desperation in his voice, “What do you want?” 

Clarke looks behind her to make sure nobody is eavesdropping, “I came to propose something to you.”

“Oh god,” he sighs again, and closes his laptop. His attention is fully on her, “I already regret this, but what is it?”

She braces herself for the rejection. She can’t believe her only hope is the man who tried to kill her just the previous night, “An alliance between Eligius and Trikru. Between you and me.”

Bellamy’s dark eyes pierce on her for long enough to make her shiver under his gaze. Then, he says what she feared he’d say, “You’re out of your mind.” 

“The guy who tried to kill me last night,” she hurried to add, hopeful to change his mind. This has to work, “We know who he is, and he’s part of Azgeda. You know they won’t hesitate to wipe both our organisations out for full control of Polis. And I’m afraid Trikru will fall first.”

Her eyes are hard on him, but he doesn’t flinch, “It’s pretty convenient that you want to get rid of this guy now that he’s trying to kill you, don’t you think?”

She swallows. He’s seen right through her bullshit. 

It’s not like Azgeda or McCreary don’t pose a real threat, though — but the urgency has nothing to do with who will control Polis. 

“Look, Princess,” he continues, “It’s a bummer that this man wants to kill you, I’ll admit that. Because if he does, then I won’t, and I won’t get paid,” blood boiling, she resists the urge to slash his throat right there, “I’m not in danger, and I’m not going to protect the girl I have to kill. Do you get that?” 

“He’s a danger to both of our organisations,” she repeats, the hope leaving her body slowly. She’s lost. He’s not going to help her, and she’s going to die. 

“I’m not doing it,” he concludes, “Good luck not getting shot, though.”

Almost as if it was a real physical sensation, Clarke can feel both targets on her back, burning and carving into her skin, and it’s making her want to scream. She’s never been so in distress before — she needs him to say yes. He _has_ to. 

Desperately, she swiftly takes her small knife out of her sleeve, and in a second the cold blade is pressed against his throat. It feels like dejavú. 

Bellamy smirks, “Hopeless much?”, he teases her, “Is this your last resort? A pocket knife?” 

“Yes,” she confesses, completely serious, as if she had nothing left to lose. And she doesn’t, in a way. He’s already refused to side with her, what’s one more threat going to do? 

“You can stab me with it if you want to,” he says, and yes, she could. She should, “I wonder what the Student Council would say, though. I’m pretty sure some of your classmates saw you wait for me outside the classroom.”

She presses the knife further into his flesh, but not enough to cut through it, “He’s going to kill you, too.”

The smug smirk never leaves his lips, “He can try.”

Suddenly, a knock at the door. 

“Mr. Blake?”

She recognises the woman as Professor Becca Franco. 

Clarke immediately hides her knife under her sleeve again, and takes a step back away from him. This is the second time they’ve almost been caught. They need to be more careful. 

Becca sends them a polite smile, “Are you guys done in here? My class starts in ten minutes.”

Bellamy adjusts his glasses over his nose, visibly startled, “Y-Yes, sorry,” he quickly grabs his laptop and his bag. She’s never seen him so nervous before, so on edge. 

She looks at him briefly, and he silently signals her with his head to leave the classroom before him. He’s right behind her, says something to Becca, and leaves. 

The hallways are almost deserted, and suddenly he’s walking besides her. He’s standing dangerously close, too, although he wouldn’t have to. The hallway is wide enough.

“Go home,” he tells her in a low voice, deeper than usually. She shivers again, “I told you I’d call a truce today.”

She wants to ask why. She wants to ask why he didn’t kill her when he had the chance. The _chances_. Why isn’t she dead right now?

“You know where I live,” she says as they step outside. He seems to be going home too, “That’s not very fair.”

He takes his car keys out, and smirks, “I’m not that lame. I like a challenge.”

She rolls her eyes, watching how he gets inside his car. The car she bled all over just the previous night. She wonders then if he had the time to clean it up, but she isn’t just about to ask. It’s not common at all to interact with targets, and she’s pretty sure they’ve interacted enough for a couple of lifetimes. 

Without another word, he starts the engine, and he’s gone. A sudden breeze of cold air hits her face, but she can’t feel anything anymore. 

Bellamy doesn't know what to make of this situation anymore. Of his life. 

He had been assigned a simple task — to kill Clarke Griffin. And not only had he _not_ killed her, but he had essentially also saved her life. And he doesn’t know what to think about his own decisions. 

Now, on top of everything, she comes into his classroom and asks for a truce, for an _alliance_. Because the little girl is scared to die. If she thinks having two killers go after you is too overwhelming, he honestly doesn’t know what she’s doing in this business. Being scared to die is not an option. 

He usually plays music in the car, but this morning the only thing he can hear are his thoughts. And they’re too loud. 

Why he saved her from that bullet, he will never know. Why he took her to her apartment to prevent her from bleeding to death, he will never understand. Why he didn’t kill her while she was passed out in her living room, he…

His phone buzzes. 

He doesn't usually check his phone while he’s driving, but he rarely gets any notifications other than from Trikru. And Octavia, but he guesses she’s working right now. 

At a red light, he quickly takes his phone out of his backpack. It’s a text. 

From Indra. 

_‘Change of plans’_

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: mentions of murder, blood and weapons.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are highly appreciated! 😊
> 
> Happy reading 💙
> 
> (Warnings at the end to avoid spoilers)

She can’t help it. 

She’s been resisting temptation for far too long, and the second she gets to her apartment, it feels like her phone is burning on her hand. 

So she succumbs to it. Whatever. A little bit of snooping around the Internet will make her no harm. She throws her bag on the couch, plops herself next to it, and opens a new tab. 

_ ‘Senator Abigail Griffin. News.’ _

Half a million results show up immediately, flooding her screen with information she doesn’t really want to know. Pictures of her mother with Kane, with Jaha, with others she can’t recognise cloud her eyes as she tries to find what she’s looking for. But nothing comes up, of course. 

She goes for another search. 

_ ‘Senator Abigail Griffin. Jake Griffin. News.’ _

Surprisingly, not many results show up, which makes her wonder if her Mom has somehow managed to bribe the press into not covering this story too. Surely, a Senator’s husband who’s just been thrown into jail should’ve made the headlines. 

And yet she barely sees a thing written about it. 

She reads a couple of articles about the day her father was imprisoned, all the way back in Arkadia many years ago, but they don’t say anything she hasn’t already read a million times. None of them tell the truth. 

Anybody with the slightest hint of critical thinking would know right away that her father is innocent. This was a set up, she’s sure about that now. And there’s only one person to blame for his wrong sentence. One disgusting, vile woman who shouldn’t even have a career in the first place. As she looks at a picture of Abby with Marcus Kane at some event last month, she thinks that perhaps there’s two. 

Defeated, she closes all tabs and locks her phone.  _ Enough _ . 

She can’t do this anymore. Closing her eyes, Clarke can’t help but think that the situation is getting too out of hand. The reasons why she joined Eligius, the reasons why she murders people as a job, the reasons why she doesn’t want to leave despite the obvious illegality of it all. It’s too much. 

And while she’s never been one to get many panic attacks, or any at all, to let anxiety wash her judgment, she can’t help but think that that is exactly what is defining her lately. She’s a storm of uncontrolled emotions. 

She considers hiding under the covers and going to sleep, hoping to finally put her mind at ease, when a knock on her door startles her. She frowns. No one ever comes to her place. She gets up, carefully so as to not make any noise, and when she’s right in front of the closed door, she hears it. 

“Open the damn door.”

That voice…

She swallows, unable to fully process it. It can’t be. It can’t be  _ him _ . What the hell is he doing here?

But sure enough, when she opens the front door and her eyes catch a glimpse of his dark curls, she thinks she’s for sure going to die now. There’s no way he’d spare her life four times in a row. 

“What are you doing here?”

“Move aside.”

“Excuse me?”

He lifts up a white plastic bag in front of her face, and her confusion only grows worse, “Move.”

She doesn’t know why, maybe it’s his commanding tone, but she moves. 

Bellamy is inside her apartment right away, walking across it like he owns the place. He then sets down the bag on her kitchen counter and starts taking out the items one by one: an alarm, locks for the windows, locks for the door and… 

“Is that a key?”, she blinks. 

“That’s a knife,” he answers matter of factly, and proceeds to show her the blade. It’s small, but she can work with it, “There’s also a comb in here, which is also a knife.” 

It feels like everything is happening way too quickly. Once everything is out of the bag, he starts by putting the lock on her door, one of the most intricate ones she’s seen, and she wants to scream. She understands nothing about this. 

“Why are you here?”, she asks again, because she can’t stand the damn intrigue and mystery any longer, “Why are you bringing me all this?”

“Can you give me a second?”

He’s not even looking at her. His concentration is on the lock now, and the more time that passes, the less she understands. She paces around the living room until he’s done, which feels like hours, and he looks equally as unbothered as he did before when she asks him again. 

“Why are you here and why did you bring all of this stuff?”, she swears she’s going to kill him if she has to ask again. 

Bellamy picks up the window locks next, and sends her a forced smile, “Congrats. You’ve just won yourself a new bodyguard.”

Her heart stops. 

“What?”

Bellamy ignores her once again as he makes his way to her bedroom, uninvited, inspecting the sole window right away. He then proceeds to put a lock on it under her astonished and confused gaze. 

Didn’t he… didn’t he turn her offer down just a couple of hours ago? 

“Bellamy,” saying his name still feels strange, but she doesn’t know how else to grab his attention. He’s still wearing the same clothes he wore to class, the same stupid glasses, and she’s actually quite impressed that he can install locks and alarms and all that jazz so proficiently. 

When he still doesn’t acknowledge her, she doesn’t hesitate as she yanks the screwdriver away from his hand. Her skin touches his for a second, and she shivers. 

“Explain.”

“Explain what?”

“Are you dense?”, she frowns, “Why are you putting locks in my house? No, actually, why are you in my house at all?” 

Finally, he looks at her. He looks at her differently now though, and she can’t quite put her finger on it. She doesn’t have time for it, anyway. He sighs, annoyed, “Your leader talked to mine.”

She arched an eyebrow, “You mean Diyoza talked to Indra.”

He really was expecting her not to know who the leader of Trikru is? Right. 

“They’ve decided to call a truce until Azgeda has been wiped out,” he explains, gaze moving back to the window. He’s looking outside into the quiet street below, “Apparently one of their agents attacked one of our own a few weeks back. Almost killed him. Indra didn’t feel strong enough back then to go after them, but with Eligius’ help it should be easy.”

Clarke looks at him, knowing exactly what this means. Somehow, her heart feels lighter. Bellamy won’t try to kill her anymore. 

“So, we’re allies now,” she concludes, and he nods, “Which means you don’t want to kill me anymore.”

“Oh, I want to. But I won’t.”

“For now.”

“For now,” he repeats, eyes travelling briefly to hers. He looks away immediately, “Give me back my screwdriver now, will you?”

She hands it to him, and leaves the bedroom without another word. 

Right. This is happening. The number of targets on her back has gone down to one, and yet she’s still unsure of how to feel about this. She has so many questions, far too many, but words won’t leave her mouth. Her brain is speeding until all she can think of is a confusing blur, and she has to force herself to come back to the ground. 

“Indra told me to drive you to Eligius Headquarters after we’re done here,” he announces after he’s finished with her window. 

She frowns, “How do I know this isn’t a trap?”

He shrugs in response, “I would’ve killed you already. But call Diyoza if you still don’t trust me.”

Alright, then. She eyes him carefully, “I trust you.”

Which, she doesn’t really, but if he’s trying to set her up, she’ll slash his throat. Easy. Plus, she has this weird feeling that he’s telling the truth. Why can she read him so easily? 

“Shall we go, then?”

When she gets into his car, something she never thought she’d do again, she notices that the passenger seat is clean to the point where it looks brand new. She wonders if it is — she knows well enough that blood stains aren’t easy to get rid of. 

Just like it isn’t easy to get rid of Bellamy Blake, it seems like. 

The ride to the part of town where Eligius Headquarters hide is quiet, and all she can think about is that he’ll now know where to find them. Just like he knows where she lives. 

She trusts Diyoza’s judgment, but she doesn't trust  _ him _ . She doubts she ever will, allies or not. 

“Fancy,” he mutters under his breath as Clarke opens the rusty, metal door that leads to the stairs. She ignores him. 

Once inside, though, Bellamy has to stop his jaw from dropping. He has never seen anything like this. 

Technology flows left and right, devices he never imagined even existed. No wonder Eligius is the biggest organisation of Polis, perhaps also the most dangerous. He now understands Indra’s respect towards them, even if they are enemies. If Trikru were to betray them now, with all they know, they would mysteriously disappear in a heartbeat. 

It doesn’t take him long enough to locate his leader, standing next to a blonde woman he assumes is Charmaine Diyoza. 

“Bellamy Blake,” she smiles, and proceeds to shake his hand. Her grip is firm, “The uncatchable Bellamy Blake.”

He can’t help but feel a bit nervous, “In the flesh,” he smiles back. 

Clarke looks carefully at Indra. She resembles a serious, respectable woman, but that doesn’t make her want to end her any less. She has a job to keep, and this is only a temporary truce. She can’t lose sight of reality. 

“I’m sure you both are aware of our current situation,” Diyoza starts, “The plan is simple. We find McCreary, we torture him until he confesses who he’s working for, and then we kill him and whoever else is involved.”

“And how exactly is this going to end with an entire organisation?”, Bellamy asks. 

“Inquisitive,” she smirks, “An organisation can’t run without their most efficient agents. Or without their leader.”

“The plan is to kill McCreary, but also to get to his leader,” Indra jumps in, “Who’s most likely the leader of Azgeda.”

It’s Clarke’s turn to ask now, “Wait, don’t we know who that is? Roan?”

She remembers Roan from her early days. An skilled assassin who didn’t hesitate to make his plans happen, who didn’t really think the consequences through. She hasn’t heard of him in a while. 

“He left a few months ago,” Diyoza assures them, because of course she knows, “They’ve decided to hide the identity of their new leader. I don’t know how they’ve managed to do that, but the truth we don’t have a clue about their identity.”

“But we’ll find out,” Indra states, so convincingly she wants to believe her. 

“Murphy and Luna are already working with one of Trikru’s best spies, Echo, to locate McCreary,” Diyoza informs them, “That’s the first step.”

“And about this… arrangement,” Bellamy starts, his hand gesturing towards Clarke. He feels his heart pounding, “What exactly are we supposed to do?”

The two women share a brief, knowing look, “You’re both our best hitman and hitwoman,” Indra speaks carefully, “We thought the most intelligent strategy would be to pair you up together against this threat.”

“Which means you don’t want to kill each other anymore,” Diyoza is quick to add, eyes piercing Clarke's. She looks down to her feet. 

“You’ll work together to go after McCreary and get him to confess,” Indra continues, “Once he does, he’s out. That’s the plan for now.”

“And Bellamy,” the leader of Eligius has never looked more serious. She lowers her voice, “If anything happens to Clarke because of your negligent behaviour, you won’t live to see another day.”

Bellamy has never been one to shriek under anyone’s words, but when he looks over at Indra and she simply nods, he knows he’s fucked. So he nods too, “Nothing will happen to her under my watch.”

Diyoza smiles, “I don’t expect any less, Mr. Blake.”

* * *

His head aches as he drives through the familiar part of town. The apartments are more modern here, as it has recently become quite the popular residential area. At first it surprised him that Octavia wanted to move up here, so far away from the actual city centre, but he is in no position to judge. 

He gets out of the car just as it starts to rain, small and inoffensive droplets he knows will turn into a full shower in just a moment. So he speeds his pace until he’s safely inside the building. 

“Big brother!”, Octavia’s smile is as big as it can get when she opens the front door, and soon she’s wrapped up inside his embrace, “I’ve missed you. How’s the new job?”

Right. He forgot to update her about it. To tell her that he’s actually not quit his previous job, and that he simply got a second one. He’s not ready for this storm. 

“So far so good,” he replies for now as he enters the unit. He waves at Lincoln, who’s sitting down on the couch with an open book between his hands, “How’s the bar?”

Octavia and Lincoln have owned a bar in central Polis for a couple of years now, and although it isn’t quite like those posh places people here seem to like, it’s always plagued with university students in search for cheap drinks and a good pool table. 

“We have a few parties coming up, so I’d say we’re fine,” his sister smirks, “But tell me about you, Bell! I feel like I haven’t seen you in so long.”

And he couldn’t be feeling more guilty about it. There was a time, not long ago, when he physically couldn’t go a couple of days without seeing his sister. It was toxic behaviour, something only an overprotective shit would do, he knows by now, but at the time he just couldn’t help it. And yet nowadays he can go without hearing from her for weeks, and he doesn’t like that one bit. 

But what are his options? He’s pretty anonymous in the business, but he can’t risk being followed and someone attacking Octavia. He would never forgive himself if something happened to her. 

“I’ve just been busy,” he tells her, because well, that’s the truth, “Being a professor is a lot more work than I imagined, but it’s rewarding,” he smiles. 

She smiles back, “I’m sure it is,” her hand is over his now, caressing his rough skin. He’s relieved his cuts have healed, or else his sister would have more than a couple of questions he doesn’t want to answer, “I’m very proud of you, Bell. And I’m even more proud that you left Trikru. I like Indra, but it wasn’t doing you any good.”

He swallows. He can feel Lincoln’s burning gaze on him, because of course he knows. He’s pretty sure he’s still in touch with Indra, so of course he knows. Lying to his sister had never sounded more appealing, but he just can’t. 

He’s already done bad enough. 

“O,” he starts, already feeling like the worst human ever for breaking her heart again, “I know you didn’t like that job, and it’s not my ideal occupation either, but it pays well. And we need the money.”

The younger Blake frowns, “Not anymore, Bellamy,” she stiffens, “I’m running my own business; and you have a decent and respectable job at University. I’m not a defenceless little child you need to take care of anymore. Please, just…,” her hand leaves his, and he immediately felt the cold, “Don’t tell me you’re still working for Indra.”

He swallows. 

“I am, O.”

Silence. 

Bellamy knows her, and he knows she’s about to explode. Honestly, she has every right to. And so he waits for the avalanche, but it never comes. 

“I thought you were in for the money,” she speaks, more collected than he expected, which only makes him even more nervous, “What changed?”

He holds his breath, “Nothing changed, O,” he exhales, but the tension isn’t gone, “I have to complete this one last mission. I haven’t told Indra yet, but once it’s done I’m quitting. For real.”

“You said that last time.”

“And then this mission came up,” he lowers his voice, “It’s a million dollars, O.”

Octavia’s eyes widen, and she looks at him in disbelief, “What kind of mission can possibly make you earn one million dollars, Bellamy?”, she asks him carefully, partly afraid of the answer. 

Bellamy hesitates, “I have to kill this other agent.” 

The girl half-chuckles, “No, you won’t,” he arches a confused eyebrow, so she continues, “You’ve never killed anyone. I don’t know how, but you haven’t. At least that’s what you tell me, unless that’s a lie too,” she’s never looked more furious, “And you’re not going to start now, Bellamy. You  _ can’t _ .”

“But the money—”

“Don’t even dare to go there,” she raises her voice, and he fears the explosion is about to happen. She points an accusing finger at his chest, “You’re incapable of killing because of Mom, Bellamy. You and I both know that. So why the fuck did you agree to a mission you know you can’t complete?”

He swallows, and finds himself unable to respond to that. He’s well aware that Octavia has never been fond of the idea of him working for Trikru. Just when Lincoln decided to quit, her brother jumped right in. He understands her desperation, really, but she first partially agreed to it because they needed the money and now… She can’t turn the tables on him now. 

But he knows he’s not going to convince her. 

“There’s been a slight change of plans,” he adds then. Octavia remains silent, so he continues, “There’s a new threat coming from Azgeda and I…,” he can’t believe that what he’s going to say next is actually real life, “I had to team up with the girl I’m supposed to kill.”

“It’s a  _ girl _ ?”, and the explosion is back, “Tell me you’re not planning to kill a woman.  _ Tell me _ .”

He swallows, “I don’t even know if the mission will be going forward after this, to be honest,” he says, because it’s true. He doesn’t know how this new alliance is going to affect Indra’s plans. 

“But you were planning to kill her,” she insists, and what does she want to hear? A lie? He can’t hide the truth from his sister, not anymore. 

When he doesn’t respond, Octavia chuckles. And that’s how he knows he’s done it. He’s set her on fire again. 

She shakes her head, “Get out of my house.”

His heart stops. 

“O…”

“ _ Out _ ,” she commands, voice firm like he’s never heard it before. He looks over at Lincoln, who doesn’t dare to give him even a simple reassuring gesture, and stands up. Octavia’s eyes pierce on him so deeply that, if looks could kill, he would’ve died a thousand times already. 

Right before he closes the door behind him, he hears the words that crush his soul. 

“Mom would be ashamed of you.”

* * *

Clarke doesn’t even know why she’s watching this, to be honest. She doesn’t laugh when she’s supposed to, she doesn’t feel any tension during the drama or even follows the plot for that matter. But she needs something to calm her anxiety levels down, and some reality show about people on a deserted island seems better than the cruel silence of her apartment. 

It’s funny. When her father went to prison, she couldn’t find her will to keep living. She thought about what it would feel like to just...be gone. Would it be painful? Would there be chaos on the other side? And yet now the mere possibility of dying haunts her in her sleep. 

So, she doesn’t want to be killed by a psycho mass murderer. Blame her for it. If she absolutely had to leave this world, she would choose at least something more peaceful. Although she’s not sure she deserves it, not after taking other people’s lives so violently. 

And so now she can’t go a second without a quiet mind, without noise surrounding her. Whether that be TV, music, or the neighbours screaming at each other. She doesn’t care. All she cares about is her mental health, which is far from stable at the moment. 

However, no matter how much she wants to stop obsessing over McCreary, she finds herself thinking about him more than she should. Like right now. 

She knows it’s not healthy, but what else is she going to do? She’s thankful Diyoza saved her from Bellamy by talking to Indra, but—

_ Tip-tap. Tip-tap.  _

Shoes. Someone is outside her apartment. 

The approaching footsteps clip-clop down the hardwood floor of the hallway outside, and she turns off the TV immediately, and waits. They have the distinct sound of someone who has not learnt to walk quietly. Each footfall is chaotically spaced from the last, no rhythm at all. Whoever is coming up the passageway is either heavily armed or someone who considers themselves untouchable, she thinks. 

Suddenly, they stop. And  _ shit _ . She completely forgot to lock the fucking door. 

Quickly, she grabs the small gun she’s hiding under the couch cushions and starts walking towards the door, careful not to make any sounds. If this is McCreary, she’ll kill him before he even has a chance to get inside. 

They’re turning the doorknob. Clarke swallows, and braces herself for the imminent. To kill or to be killed. 

To be killed or to get caught killing. 

None of these options sound too good, but she doesn’t have the time to think about them for longer when whoever is outside finally opens the door. 

“Oh, please. Put that shit down.”

_ Bellamy _ . 

“What are you doing here?”, she lowers her gun slowly, almost as if she’s waiting for McCreary to storm right afterwards. It wouldn’t really surprise her if Bellamy betrayed her and sided with him instead. 

He then lifts up a bag of Chinese takeaway so she can see for herself, and her heart jumps, “You bought food?”

Bellamy ignores the way her voice sounds a lot weaker than usual, “I’m not planning to starve myself to death tonight.”

It’s the second time he’s stormed inside her apartment uninvited that day, acting as if he lived there himself. As if they were friends. 

Just like every time she sees him, she has too many questions, and yet he always manages to leave her speechless. 

“I hope you like Chinese,” he says as he takes the food out. He’s not looking at her, “Tough luck if you don’t.”

She rolls her eyes, “I do,” she scoffs, and notices that he’s conveniently bought food for  _ both _ of them. He’s actually brought her dinner. And she doesn’t know how to feel about it, or about him, for that matter. 

They eat in silence. 

It has been one hell of a rough day for her, and she has no energy to do anything else other than eating. And she’s not even that hungry, her stomach closed with anxiety. She’s on edge with him here. 

Silence lingers in the air, thick and heavy, like a blanket. Bellamy isn’t talking, either, sitting at the opposite end of the couch. His silence is somehow comforting and spoke for itself, it was peaceful yet irritating in a way she couldn’t quite explain. She is grateful he doesn’t feel like talking, because she is too exhausted to hear whatever nonsense comes out of his mouth next. 

But of course, short after she’s done with her meal, his deep voice is flooding the apartment. 

“Why are you a student?”

The question takes her by surprise, “Why are you a Professor?” 

She swears she sees a hint of a smile, “I asked you first.”

She ponders the question in her head, something she’s asked herself way too many times before. And she can only think of one reason, “I wanted to do something other than...this.”

He nods, and looks away at the TV. The reality show is still on, but neither of them are paying attention, “Same thing for me.”

“Did you actually know I would be a student in your class when you applied for the job?”, she asks, because frankly she’s dying to know. She doesn’t really believe in coincidences, but perhaps it’s time to re-evaluate her beliefs. 

Bellamy’s lips curve up into a cheeky smile, “You know what? Actually, I didn’t,” her heart skips a beat, “I just wanted to feel like at least some part of my life was normal, you know? And then you walked into my classroom and it all went to hell.”

Clarke debates whether to continue with the conversation. She doesn’t exactly like him that much, and she’s sure he feels the same, but at the same time making small talk for a little while is the least she can do, right? He bought her dinner after all. And she needs a distraction. 

“Aren’t you afraid of getting caught?”, she asks him then. 

Silence. Then, “Not for the reasons you think.”

She frowns, “So, why?” 

Bellamy takes the last bite of his dinner, and leans forward to place the empty takeaway box on the coffee table in front of them, “I have a sister.”

She nods to herself, understanding, “And you don’t want her to be in danger.”

“She would be if they found out who I am,” he says, a hint of worry in his voice. 

“There are some unwritten rules, you know?”, she tells him, recalling something Diyoza told her once, “About not going after families and such. It’s considered a low blow by many. Cowardy.” 

“I’m still not risking it,” he states, which is fair enough. He side eyes her, “What about you? No family to obsessively worry about?”

She almost smiles, “The only one I care about is in jail. So,” she says, and immediately regrets it. She shouldn’t be bringing this up. Not with him. 

He seems to get the message, though, because he doesn’t ask any more questions.  _ Good _ . He’s good at reading situations, at least. 

“Well,” she starts, hoping not to sound too awkward, “Thanks for dinner. Are you leaving now?”

Bellamy looks at her for a moment, then smirks, “Are you sure you want me to leave, though? You looked pretty tense with your gun back then.” 

She wishes she could just wipe that stupid smile off of his lips, “You’re lucky I didn’t shoot you.”

“Sure,” he teases her, and leans on the tiny couch, “Looks comfy enough for a good night’s sleep. What do you say?”

She blinks, “You’re not serious,” silence, “You’re not staying at my apartment.”

“I have a job here, Princess”, he arches a playful eyebrow, “I’m a full-time bodyguard now, haven’t you heard?”

She’s about to say no. She’s about to ask him what the whole Princess thing is about, because it infuriates her way more than it probably should. She’s about to do all these things, say them, shout them, when her brain shuts down. 

“I’m too tired for this shit,” she concludes, and throws the only cushion on the sofa at his face. He catches it mid-air, “Sweet dreams.”

She leaves to her bedroom without looking back, and then hears him saying, “Good night, Princess,” before she shuts the door behind her. 

* * *

In the serenade of the dark night, of the late hours, Bellamy can’t bring himself to fall asleep. 

The TV is playing softly in the background, almost acting as white noise, and he’s staring at the boring ceiling of the apartment, waiting for the tiredness to kick in. But it’s been hours since Clarke left for her bedroom, and he hasn’t had much luck yet. 

A disguised noise wakes him up even more, and if he wasn’t so alert he wouldn’t have heard it. It sounds like a click, and it’s close. 

He gets up from the couch. 

His footsteps make the floor beneath him squeak, and he curses under his breath. He can’t make himself known. 

_ Chip. Chip. Chip _ . 

There it is again. 

He searches every corner of the small apartment, looks out of the front door. Nothing. He’s about to lose his mind when a quick movement outside the kitchen window catches his eye. 

Gun in hand, he moves slowly towards it. It’s impossible that it’s a person, he thinks. The apartment is too high up, and he’s  _ there _ . Nobody ever goes past him unnoticed. 

_ Chip. Chip. Chip _

This can’t be happening. He can’t be so incompetent that he can’t locate a damn threat. He promised Diyoza to look after Clarke, and yet he can’t even—

Then, he sees it. 

It’s a fucking squirrel. 

A small squirrel is running around the fire escape, and he’s glad no one was around to see him freak out over a fucking animal. He sighs. 

The sudden urgency to check on her kicks in, and he’s ninety nine percent sure he’s gone completely insane. She’s okay. It was just a squirrel, and it wasn’t even inside the apartment. 

And yet he can’t shake it off his system. 

Slowly, he marches towards her closed bedroom door, and hesitates. What if she’s awake and shoots him with something?

_ No, she won’t do that.  _

So, he counts to three, and opens the squeaky door. 

Clarke is lying on her side, snoring softly and covers all over the messy bed, tangled between her legs. She’s hugging a pillow to her face, and he feels like he’s seeing something he shouldn’t. 

This is creepy, and he shouldn’t be watching her while she sleeps. It’s not like he intends to — the scene is so rare it’s almost mesmerising, and it’s filling his chest with a certain warmth he hasn’t felt in very long. 

He shakes his head. 

This is wrong. He shouldn’t be here. Except…

His instincts pull at him like a leash, and he walks towards the bed, takes the thick covers and places them over her body carefully. 

There. She’s warm, and she’s safe. His mind is finally at ease. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: very brief mention of suicide, the usual mentions of murder


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy +4k words of Bellarke shamelessly drooling over each other and some good old fake dating 👀
> 
> Stay tuned for the following chapter. That’s all I’m gonna say.
> 
> Happy reading! 💙
> 
> (Warnings at the end to avoid spoilers)

“You did  _ what _ ?”

Raven’s proud smile mimics Echo’s as they enter Diyoza’s office, holding their heads up high. It’s only been a couple of days since their alliance became official, and Clarke wasn’t expecting to see results so soon. Not like she’s all that surprised, really — Diyoza only hires the best professionals out there, and she suspects Indra does the same. 

“We’ve hacked McCreary’s phone,” Raven informs them, making the Eligius leader raise her eyebrows in surprise, “It wasn’t that difficult,” she shrugs.

“What have you found?”, the woman asks immediately, wasting no time on specifics. 

Clarke and Bellamy listen attentively as the Trikru spy speaks next, “Sadly, not much. He’s good at keeping minimal communication. Our guess is that he uses another Azgeda device for that.” 

“However,” Raven interrupts, “We’ve intercepted quite the strange text.” 

Bellamy frowns, so Echo takes over, “He’s gotten the same text from two different people. It’s a date with an address and a time. For tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”, Clarke frowns, “Let me see.”

Raven passes her the small tablet, and she starts reading. The date is indeed for tomorrow, at 9pm. The place is the Great Hall of Polis Grand Hotel, and it’s ringing a bell. She can almost hear its piercing sound inside her brain, and she searches for that important piece of information she completely forgot about. 

She should know what this is about. An event at Polis Grand Hotel. During the fall. An event McCreary would attend. She swears she’s heard about it before—

“It’s a banquet,” she says, suddenly, “Usually only uptight, rich people attend. Senators, politicians, CEOs…,” she looks over at Diyoza, already suspecting what her intentions are, “It’s a nightmare.”

“So, what do you think McCreary will be doing there?”, Bellamy asks, looking at her. She feels small under his gaze. 

Before she can reply, Indra steps in, “Meeting up with his leader, probably.” 

Raven arches an skeptic eyebrow, “In such a public setting?” 

“There’s no better place to hide than in plain sight,” Diyoza recites.

“It makes sense,” Echo mutters, “The former leader of Azgeda, Roan, used to attend those parties all the time. To showcase his wealth, mainly. He always brought his minions with him. He wasn’t scared of getting caught — it was almost like a challenge to the authorities, like a  _ catch me if you can _ move.”

“Echo used to work for Azgeda,” Bellamy suddenly whispers, leaning on her ear so that only she can hear him. She nods, taken aback by his action. Since when does he acknowledge her existence if it isn’t to kill her? 

She mentally shakes her head. She wonders why Echo left Azgeda, but the conversation is still unfolding in front of them and she needs to pay attention, “The plan is simple,” Diyoza starts again, “We sneak in, we follow him, we make him confess.”

“There’s no way we can sneak in like that,” Clarke affirms, making everyone turn around to look at her. She sighs. Okay. Well. She would have to say it, “I used to attend. Many years ago, with my parents. It’s full of important political figures, so the security forces are top of their game.”

“That has never stopped us before,” Diyoza points out. 

“All I’m saying,” Clarke shrugs, “Is that it’ll take us a huge amount of time and resources to  _ just _ get inside. And then what? There’s a security guard and a security camera in every corner. It’s not worth it.”

She can almost hear her boss’ brain working inside her head. She had to tell them — it’s not something she’s proud of, and she hates having been part of that world. For many years she refused to accept it, but now… now it may come in handy. 

“I have a plan,” she announces suddenly, “And I’m not going to like it, but it’s the only option we have.”

Diyoza frowns, intrigued, “Go ahead.”

She can still back out now, she’s painfully aware of that. But at the same time it’s the only way. At least this way they would have a chance, even if slim, “I can get in.”

“How?”

“Through the...door?”, she’s confused by Diyoza’s question, and it takes her a second to realise that she probably thought she was talking about sneaking in. She clears her throat awkwardly, “As I said before, I used to attend with my parents. I may not be on the list for this one, but everyone there knows who my mother is. They’ll let me in.”

The leader of Trikru frowns, not entirely convinced, “Are you sure they’ll let you in just like that?”

Clarke shrugs, “It’s better than any other option we have.”

Diyoza considers it for a minute, “You’re not going by yourself.”

“I can—”

“Don’t even try,” she warms her firmly, an accusing finger pointed at her, “You’re not going by yourself, end of the discussion. It may get ugly, and I’m not risking your safety.”

“I agree,” Indra nods, “Bellamy will go with you.”

He’s about to argue, but then he remembers what his role is supposed to be in this whole situation. Not an assassin — a protector. That’s something he has far more experience in. 

So he nods.

“I’ll go with her.”

* * *

The hotel lobby is elegant, she observes from afar, but in the most unclassy way possible. It has all the corporate taste for opulent items without the slightest touch of personality — she didn’t remember Polis Grand Hotel looking so tacky. Maybe that's deliberate. 

The floor is tiled in fine marble, which makes every step echo. A chandelier causes rainbow colors to dance across the luxurious room. Embroidered silk sofas surround a large, lustrous fountain. The twin doors that lead into the main hall are of a pristine white with golden handles. She’s not ready for what may be waiting for her on the other side. 

The couple in front of them moves, and so they move as well. The queue is coming to an end, and Clarke knows she’s not supposed to be this nervous if she wants her plan to work out. She needs to remain calm for her own good. 

All while trying not to look at Bellamy too much. 

But who can blame her? The man is wearing a fucking tuxedo. A  _ tuxedo _ . She can’t deal with this. 

She knows he’s just playing the part — if they want everyone in there to believe they’re part of their inner circle of morons, at least they need to look like such. But  _ shit _ . 

The tuxedo brings something out of him, a self-respecting pride and confidence that he wears as if they belonged to him. And maybe they do. It is both his weapon and his camouflage. Who would dare to question a young man in the penguin-suit black and whites? They’d probably think he’s wearing it to flaunt his wealth and power, not look twice his way. A kid coming from a rich family, just like everyone their age. Because even though Bellamy is quite older than she is, he doesn’t look like it. 

The queue moves again, and the cold outside is already making her regret her outfit choice. High heels and a sleeveless black dress aren’t the warmest for the night, but she’ll live through it. At least she looks like her old self — posh enough to fool everyone into thinking she’s there willingly, and because of her mother. 

“Name?”, the security guard doesn’t even look at them as his eyes scan an endless list of names. 

“Um, actually,” she starts, and immediately clears her throat. She needs to sound convincing, “I don’t think we’re on the list. We were invited by Abigail Griffin.” 

“You can’t go in if your name isn’t on the list,” he says in a bored voice, almost as if he’s tired of repeating the same mantra all evening. 

It’s okay. She knows this was a possibility, “I don’t think you understand,” in a second, her whole personality switches. She embraces her bratty, uptight side as the words leave her mouth. She hasn’t felt so disgusted with herself in years, “My  _ mother _ , Senator Abigail Griffin invited us here. I don’t think you want her to know that you left  _ her daughter _ outside of an event she’s hosting herself.”

Now he’s looking at her. His eyes are a mixture of panic and incredulity, but a couple more seconds giving him a dirty look and she’s pretty sure it’s in the bag. Bellamy stays quiet by her side, watching the scene unfold. He can’t believe his eyes. 

“ID, please,” the guard says then, and so she hands it to him, “You may come in, Ms. Griffin. Sorry for the inconvenience.”

“He’s coming with me,” she states, plainly, and the guard just nods. 

She almost feels bad about it, but she needs to keep her act up. So, without another word, she gives him one dirty look, grabs Bellamy’s hand and walks inside. 

“Wow,” he chuckles, once they’re safely in the lobby, “Bratty Princess much? I didn’t know you had it in you, although I guess I kinda suspected it.”

“Shut up,” she scoffs, right as her brain registers a mysterious warmth on her hand.  _ Shit _ . Their fingers are loosely intertwined, holding onto each other almost as if they wanted to. Quickly, she pulls away, making Bellamy look at her. He says nothing about it, this brief moment of confusion, and neither does she. His heart is beating fast. 

Whatever. It was just an act to fool the security guard. He probably guessed he was his boyfriend, right? She had to properly play the part, but there’s no need to anymore. Bellamy isn’t disappointed at all, of course not.

“Okay, what’s the plan?”, she asks him, trying to shake off whichever thoughts she totally doesn’t need to be having right now. The warmth of his hand on hers, his tuxedo, the way his eyes have a strange twinkle to them tonight. They’re all distractions. 

Bellamy looks around, and she notices that his cheeks look a shade more red now. What’s up with that?, “We need to locate McCreary while trying not to attract too much attention to ourselves.”

“And then?”

“He’ll probably recognise us. Or at least he’ll recognise you. But he won’t dare to kill you here.”

“Yeah,” she swallows, trying not to think about it too much, “His boss is probably here, too. He wouldn’t risk outing him like that.”

“I didn’t mean that,” he says, eyes still far away in the distance, “He won’t hurt a single hair on your head as long as I’m here.”

Her heart skips a beat, and suddenly she feels her palms getting sweaty. She’s pretty sure that her face would look as red as a tomato if she weren’t wearing makeup, and she hates herself for it. Getting flustered over some loser assassin? Is she eight?

“Oh, yeah. You’re such a hero,” she teases him, trying not to sound too affected by his words. 

“What can I say,” he responds in the same playful tone, “Read too much mythology as a kid. I guess I have a God complex now.”

She chuckles dryly, “As long as it helps you sleep at night.”

“Sure it does—”

Then, she sees him. 

“Shh,” she interrupts him as she grabs his arm, and walks quickly towards the end of the hallway. There are only a few people here, around the bathrooms area, but she feels trapped. Her breath hitches. 

“Hey,” Bellamy puts a hand on her shoulder, eyes darting back between her and the entrance of the hotel, “What is it? Did you see McCreary?”

She shakes her head, “No,” she says, and Bellamy relaxes a little, “No, just one of my mother’s friends. Thelonious Jaha.”

“Oh, Clarke, come on,” he rolls his eyes, dropping his hand. Her skin feels colder now, “You scared me. What’s so bad about that man?”

“Nothing,” her eyes never leave the hotel entrance, “But if he’s here, then my Mom probably is as well.”

He arches a confused eyebrow, “And that’s bad because…?”

“Because I haven’t seen her in almost two years.”

His eyes get wider in surprise, thinking that something big must've happened between them if they’ve been ignoring each other for so long. But he’s not about to ask. He has other priorities, and none of them include exploring Clarke Griffin’s personal life and family background. 

“Well, you’ll have to get over it,” he tells her, perhaps more harshly than he intended, “McCreary can’t get away.”

“I know that,” she frowns, and lets out a long sigh she didn’t know she was holding. This stupid man is making her evening even worse, and she didn’t think that could be possible, “Come on. Let’s go to the  _ actual _ party.”

“I thought you wanted to hang out by the bathrooms all evening,” he smirks, and just like that all the previous tension is gone. A new kind of thickness in the air has replaced it, but she brushes it off. 

She rolls her eyes at him as she starts making her way towards the Great Hall, all senses alert in case she sees a familiar face. 

Inconsequent polite conversation, canapes, wine, are the first things she notices as they walk inside. The sight of fancy dresses and a strong scent of perfume invade her senses as they look for an empty spot to sit, and she isn’t aware of the tension in her body until a warm, big hand is touching the small of her back. 

“What do you think you’re doing?”, she whispers, muscles tensing, leaning over him so that nobody else hears. 

He leans in too, “Nobody will believe we are a happy, wealthy couple unless we act like one.”

She frowns, “Who said anything about being a couple?”

“Right, because one brings a casual friend to these things.”

He has a point. 

“Alright,” she gives in, sitting down in an empty chair in one of the more hidden tables, “But keep it on the low. We don’t know who’s here, and we’re still a Professor and his student. Remember that,” she warns him. He nods. 

Not like he was planning to take her on top of this very table, anyway. 

Dinner starts soon after that, and their table slowly gets more crowded. Luckily for both of them, it’s all strangers. They chat about trivial things neither of them care about, but it’s all for show. Their silent stares are enough to communicate about the real reason they’re sitting through that hell. 

At one point, she thinks she sees her mother, but she’s too far away to tell. The woman certainly looks beautiful, healthy, happy. Everything she took away from her own daughter. But she sees no Marcus Kane around, so perhaps it’s not her. 

Whatever. She isn’t here to have any conversations about broken families. She’s there to kill. 

Bellamy can’t seem to focus on anything, and it’s not good. He’s supposed to have one eye on her, the other on McCreary. 

And yet both are on the girl next to him. 

This is ridiculous, he thinks. She’s someone he was supposed to kill days ago, and yet he couldn’t even do _that_. He couldn’t even leave her alone to bleed to death, like he had done so many other times. Pathetic and weak, that’s what he is. How has Indra not fired him yet?

And now he’s sitting beside her, the light scent of her perfume captivating all his senses, and he’s pretty sure this mission is going to hell. He can’t fucking focus. 

The urge to hold her, to feel her skin, has never been more prominent than tonight. Perhaps it’s because she looks breathtaking, perhaps because he’s been suppressing his desires for too long. One thing is clear, and it’s that he’s losing his goddamn mind. Should he hold her hand? Should he kiss her cheek? Would anyone even believe their act if they don’t act all sappy with each other? 

The worst thing by far is that he wants to act sappy, and he loathes himself for it. He wants to hold her hand, pull her close. He needs to feel that she’s safe. 

“Bellamy,” she whispers, and he feels her kick him under the table. Immediately he looks up, and it doesn’t take him long to spot him. 

McCreary. 

Dinner has long finished, and a few people have left their seats to go speak to their friends, or to get some more drinks. That’s where he sees him. McCreary walks across the fancy bar, confident in his step, and suddenly he stops. 

He’s talking to someone. 

A man. 

“Who is that?”, Clarke whispers lowly into his ear. 

He frowns, and looks up at one of the security cameras in the room, “I don’t know,” he confesses, “I need to speak to Indra.”

“ _ Now _ ?”

“Now.”

Clarke doesn’t want to be left alone, but she also knows better than to jeopardise a mission just because she might be a bit afraid. Whatever, it’s nothing. So she nods. 

“I’ll be right back,” Bellamy assures her, and squeezes her hand before he gets up. His touch doesn’t linger. And he’s gone. 

_ Okay, Clarke, stay calm.  _

But she can’t. She can’t lie to herself anymore — she despises the idea of being left alone in the same room as that man, and although she knows he can’t kill her here, she’s not feeling any safer. 

She tells herself that it’ll just take Bellamy a couple of minutes to talk to Indra, and it’s only when that thought manages to ease her anxiety that she wonders what the hell she’s doing. She shouldn’t feel safe around a man who has threatened to kill her multiple times. He shouldn’t bring her any kind of comfort. And yet…

“Clarke?”

_ No, no, no. This can’t be happening.  _

“Marcus,” she smiles ever so slightly, trying not to make more eye contact than what’s strictly necessary. 

“I didn’t know you were coming,” he’s trying to sound polite, but there’s something underneath all that fake facade she can’t yet identify. 

She keeps smiling, hoping that her mother won’t join them. Knowing her, she probably wouldn’t even dare. She isn’t brave enough to face her daughter after everything she put her through. 

“Well, it’s nice to see you,” she lies, and luckily for her someone calls his name behind him. 

“I have to go,” he excuses himself, although he’s probably even more relieved than she is, “Glad you stopped by, Clarke.”

She simply nods, and watches as he goes back into the crowd.  _ Shit _ . It wasn’t the worst-case scenario, but she doesn’t want him to know she’s there. She doesn’t want  _ anyone _ to know. 

“Hey, I’m back,” sure enough, Bellamy returns to the table shortly after Marcus left. She decides she’ll just keep their interaction to herself for now, “Your friend Raven has hacked into the security cameras which, to be honest, I’m quite impressed about. I’ve heard all about the government’s security measures and yet—”

“To the point,” she interrupts him. 

“Right, sorry,” he internally shakes his head. He shouldn’t be rambling at a moment like this, “Diyoza has somewhat identified the man McCreary was talking to. She doesn’t think he’s his leader, but merely a messenger.”

“A messenger,” she repeats. 

“Between him and Azgeda’s true leader,” Bellamy nods, “McCreary wouldn’t be so careless to talk to him in public. Especially not when they probably suspect that we know about their plan, and that we‘ll be watching him.”

It makes sense. She looks over to where they’d last seen him, but he’s not here anymore. Her eyes dart to the security cameras. 

“He’s gone,” she tells Bellamy, “Can they locate him through the cameras?”

Something inside of him doesn’t feel right. He thinks about going after McCreary, and his alarms instantly go off. Every single one of his instincts are focused on keeping Clarke alive for his own sake, and something is telling him that they won’t win today if they go after him. 

“New plan,” he suddenly gets up, extending his hand for Clarke to take it. She hesitates, but she finally does. 

As she follows him outside the Hall, she can’t help but focus on their intertwined fingers. Again. It’s a simple gesture, and she shouldn’t be overthinking it, yet she finds herself unable to stop. His hand is big and warm, dangerous enough to kill her and soft enough to calm her down. They are hands that know how to hold on and yet simultaneously set her free.

Before she knows it, they’re in a part of the hotel she doesn’t recognise, and she forces herself to stop thinking about Bellamy’s captivating hands and pay attention to what he’s actually doing. His phone is on his other hand, some map displayed on the screen. 

“Who are we following?”, she asks him, immediately recognising the localisation software Diyoza has made her use so many times. 

“The messenger,” he says, not looking back at her. Then, he makes a weird turn, and they’re outside. 

The empty, narrow street stretches onward into the darkness of the sky. It smells like the dinner they’d just had, so Clarke guesses the backdoor for the kitchen must be nearby. 

Bellamy is looking at the screen, his hand still holding hers. It feels strangely nice. Her heart feels calm. 

“It says he’s here,” he frowns, confused, as he looks around. But there’s nobody there. 

“Do you think he knows we are going after him?”, she asks him. 

But he shakes his head, “That's impossible.”

She hears it first. The sound of an engine, a bike perhaps, not far away. It doesn’t take him long to hear it too, and before her brain can register what’s going on, Bellamy is sprinting in the direction of the sound.

_ Fuck _ .

Running on heels isn’t the most painful thing she’s endured, but she hates to admit it’s pretty damn close. A gun goes off before she can find Bellamy, and for a second her stomach drops. He… he’s not dead, is he?

No, it’s impossible. 

Bellamy can’t die. He  _ can’t _ . 

She’ll probably regret it later, but now she couldn’t care less as she takes her heels off, and runs barefoot towards the gunshot. Her soles are burning, but she can only focus on him. He needs to be alright. He can’t… he can’t leave her. 

She goes around a dark corner, and then she breathes again. 

He’s not dead. 

“Tell me,” Bellamy is on the ground, both hands around the man’s neck, and she thinks she’s never seen him look so terrifying. 

The bike lies behind them, the wheel at the back completely deflated, so she assumes he’s shot it. Bellamy punches him, “Tell me who you work for.”

Clarke stays behind, the gun she’s kept on her thigh all night now on her hand, as she carefully watches their surroundings. If McCreary finds them, it’s bound to get pretty ugly. 

The man sobs, “I promise I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he utters, voice shaking. 

Bellamy punches him again, “That blonde man you were talking to before. McCreary. You know who he works for?”

He shakes his head, and he punches him again. Clarke winces, “Keep lying to me and you won’t recognise your face in the morning.”

“I don’t know who he works for,” he blurts out again, but Bellamy isn’t convinced. 

“You’re telling me you’re not a messenger for Azgeda?”, he asks incredulously, although he already knows the answer. 

When he shakes his head and his fist collides with his face once again, Clarke has had enough, “I don’t think he’s going to talk,” she swallows, “Let him go.”

Bellamy snaps his head towards her, “Are you kidding?”, he spits out, “The bastard clearly knows something. Your life's on the line, Clarke! If he doesn’t want to talk, I’ll make him.”

Before he’s even finished his sentence, he punches him again. Clarke can’t recognise the man in front of her. She knows he is Trikru’s best hitman, and that title isn’t given without a reason, but she’s never seen him like this. So ruthless, so aggressive. Is this the real Bellamy? Has she been blind all along?

She can’t help but wonder if he would’ve done the same to her that night in the warehouse, if things had gone differently. 

The messenger is spitting blood by this point, and she doesn’t think he would be able to talk even if he wanted to. She’s done with this. 

“Alright,” she steps in, gun in hand, and she points it to his head. She lowers down to his level, “You don’t have to talk. Say yes or no with your head, or I’ll pull the trigger right now. Am I clear?”

The man nods, tears and fresh blood spilling down his chin. He’s scared. Bellamy has a frown on his face, but he doesn’t interfere. 

“Do you work for Azgeda?”

A nod. Faint, shy, but it’s there. 

“Good,” Clarke changes the gun so that it’s now pointed at his throat, “Is McCreary working for Azgeda in order to kill me?”

Nothing. Clarke pulls the gun deeper into his skin, “One, two…”

He nods. 

“Good,” she repeats, and in a swift movement she takes a small blade out from under her dress, and slashes his throat with a clean cut. 

Bellamy releases his grip on him in shock, and looks up at her. Clarke shrugs, “What? A gun would’ve been too loud.” 

He blinks, “Well, um,” he starts, and suddenly feels the bitter cold of the night, “I guess Azgeda needs a new messenger now.”

Clarke sighs, and puts the gun and the knife back on her thighs. No matter how many lives she takes, the rush always makes her feel like it’s the first time. Her body is full of adrenaline, and she can’t tell the anxiety and the excitement apart anymore. 

“You were punching the living shit out of him,” she comments as she gets up, Bellamy following suit soon after.

“We had to make him talk.”

“Well, it didn’t work,” she swallows, and looks down at her hands. Blood. A sight she’s seen way too often, “Are you always like this? So aggressive?”

“If your life is in danger, then yes,” he confesses, not really thinking his words through. The adrenaline is wearing off, and his eyes travel lazily to her body. Her dress has gone up just a bit, but definitely high enough to let him admire her exposed skin. God, he’s sick for this.

“You know what?”, she announces suddenly, bringing him back to his senses, “The night has been eventful enough. I think we need to have some  _ actual _ fun.” 

Bellamy’s heart skips a beat, “Fun,” he repeats. 

Clarke smirks, “And I know the perfect place for it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: explicit mentions of murder, weapons and blood.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is EVENTFUL and you’d want to look at the warnings at the end just in case. Also, I made Clarke say a terrible dad joke at the beginning so I apologise in advance 😭
> 
> Let’s just say this is a turning point in the story.
> 
> Happy reading! 💙

When Clarke told him they should ‘have some fun’, he wasn’t expecting to come  _ here _ .

The music is as loud as roaring thunder, neon lights flashing everywhere like police sirens, but far more colourful. He has never been to this particular club, or to downtown Polish that much for that matter, and he wasn’t expecting her to come here either. 

Clarke doesn’t strike him as the kind of girl who would enjoy a wild party in a crowded club. To be honest, she doesn’t strike him as someone who enjoys a fun time either, but he guesses he just doesn’t know her that well.

He looks around, and notices that they’re way too overdressed for such a party. But he doesn’t think anyone would notice in their current state. The place stinks of alcohol, and he swears he can smell vomit too, but he doesn’t want to double check. Bellamy follows her up the bar, where she’s already shouting something into the bartender’s ear, and soon enough he brings two drinks over to them. 

He blinks, “You ordered this for me?”

“Consider it a thank you gift for buying me dinner the other night,” she shrugs before drinking half her drink in one sitting. 

He stares down at his own, and takes a big sip as well. It tastes horrible, but why not. They have killed a man tonight — they deserve some time off. 

Clarke is swaying shyly next to him, their arms pressed together, and suddenly he feels the air getting thicker. Okay. It’s pretty clear that he needs a distraction. So he looks up to the crowd again, and it doesn’t take him long to spot Miller in the distance. He frowns. What is he doing here?

He’s here with a guy he recognises as Brian. He can’t say he’s jealous, not really — it happened years ago, and they’ve both made it pretty clear that their friendship went before anything else. But for some reason he still doesn’t fully trust Brian. Sure enough, there must be someone better out there for his friend. 

“Are you checking him out?”, the teasing voice besides his ear almost makes him jump. He momentarily forgot he is here with someone else, “He’s pretty cute.”

Bellamy chuckles, “Forget about it, Princess,” he takes another sip of his weird tasting drink. Is this moonshine?, “He’s gay.”

“Nice to meet you, gay. I’m bi,” she smirks, and he loses it. He’s pretty sure she’s already pretty drunk, if that is even possible. She’s quite tiny, so maybe it is. 

He shakes his head amusedly, “Hi, bi. What a coincidence, huh? I’m bi, too.”

It feels strange saying it out loud, but it also does feel fucking liberating. For the first time ever, he feels like he can relate to her at some level, other than their job. Something that makes them  _ them _ . Like they’re something more, something else than their dubious occupations. 

“So, did you hook up with him or what?”, the sparkle in her eyes tells him that she’s definitely not sober. 

He doesn’t hesitate as he takes her drink from her hand under her annoyed gaze, and puts it on the counter, “Happened many years ago,” he tells her to distract her from the fact that she’s just lost her moonshine, “We’re very good friends now, actually.”

“How mature of you,” she hiccups, “My ex and I didn’t end on such good terms.”

He’s surprised she’s bringing her personal life up to him, but he doesn’t feel like shutting her up. He’s curious. So he gets close enough so that she can hear him, “Can I ask why?”

Clarke tugs at her bottom lip, but not in a way that would suggest flirting. She’s worried, “She was still in love with her ex,” she shrugs, eyes scanning the bar for her missing drink. It’s already gone, “Sucks, right?”

Bellamy can’t relate, not really. He’s never had a real relationship before, has never been the kind of guy ready to commit to any man or woman. Definitely not now that he works as a damn hitman. But he still has some basic human empathy left, “Sorry that happened to you.”

“It’s okay,” she reassures him, “It’s long forgotten.”

“Good for you,” he smiles, and decides that they’re only bringing themselves down by having this conversation. Weren’t they supposed to be having fun?, “Come on. I think I’ve seen some darts on our way here.”

Thirty minutes later, Clarke starts to realise that she, in fact, is having fun. 

Somehow they’ve joined a darts competition, and she can only feel sorry for their opponents. As if some college students would have a chance against two professional assassins. Not like they know this, but. When they hit the bullseye every single time for three rounds straight, the staff kindly asks them to leave the tournament, and Clarke finds herself dying of laughter against Bellamy’s chest. 

He has one arm wrapped around her shoulders, shielding her from all the drunk people around them, and she’s actually never felt more calm in weeks. It must be the alcohol, she thinks, still floating in her system. 

“Want a drink?”, a voice behind her asks, and she quickly realises that it doesn’t belong to Bellamy. 

She looks back, and sees some guy she doesn’t recognise, “Um, no, thank you,” she gives him a polite smile, hoping he’d just go away.

“Come on, blondie,” he laughs, and trips over his own feet. Bellamy’s grip around her shoulder tightens. Or is she imagining things?

“I said no,” she repeats, more serious this time. She can’t believe it. First time she goes out in years and she has to deal with a fucking moron. 

“You know you want to,” the man laughs again, and she feels a primal need to wipe that stupid smile off his face. So she does. 

Clarke releases herself from Bellamy’s grip and, in a swift movement, her body is pressed against the man’s. He looks surprised, amused, for a second before he feels a pinch on his stomach area. 

It’s a knife. 

“Don’t you dare bother another woman ever again,” her hand is wrapped around the back of his hair, pulling at it hard so he can feel it, and her mouth is against his ear. The blade deepens, but not enough to make him bleed, “Understood?”

He nods quickly, eyes wide with horror, and it doesn’t take him more than a second to step back and run away, lost again into the crowd. Clarke puts the knife back under her dress with a satisfied smirk — that’d teach him for life. And if he dares to snitch, well… No one will believe a stoned and drunk fuck over an innocent college student, right?

“Hey,” Bellamy’s hand around her wrist is what she feels next. She jumps at the sudden contact, “You okay?”

He can’t deny that he feels slightly bad for not having said anything, but he also knows how good Clarke is at defending herself. She needs no help from him, and weirdly that makes his heart feel a little bit warmer. 

“I’m fine,” she says, sounding completely sober now. But she won’t let the fun die out like that, “Come on. Let’s dance.”

“I don’t dance.”

“Um, yes you do.”

He sighs, but it’s not a sign of desperation anymore. In fact, he hasn’t felt desperate around her for a while. What’s all that about? He doesn’t have time to dwell on his thoughts too much, because the next thing he knows is that Clarke is dancing too dangerously close to him. It’s not like there’s much room for distance anyway, but still.

Perhaps he has nothing to lose, or perhaps he’s making the biggest mistake of his career by getting so close to someone he’s supposed to kill later. As he looks at her, head moving side to side to the rhythm of some unknown song, he wonders if Clarke is really going to be his first victim. He doesn’t want her to be, and that’s dangerous. 

Music, to her, is like turning back the clock, traveling and returning to a previous time where agony and loss didn’t exist. She embraces the music and in turn the music takes control of her soul. She finds herself in a different world. A world of comfort. She’s just killed a man and threatened to kill another, yet none of those things matter as she lets herself be free. 

Bellamy’s eyes watch her like a predator watches his prey, like a lion watches an antelope, and perhaps for the first time she wouldn’t mind getting caught. So she wraps her arms around his neck. 

He’s not sure what goes through his mind as his hands travel to both sides of her hips, holding her steady, but he concludes that he likes it. Maybe he’s insane. Yes, it must be that. He knows he’s not drunk — it’d take him way more than a couple of drinks to even  _ feel _ the alcohol in his system. But there’s a fuzzy, tingly feeling in his stomach that actually makes him doubt. Perhaps it’s something else. 

Suddenly, a couple of people make their way into the dancefloor behind Clarke, and push her on the way. Her body launches forwards, collapsing with his chest, and his grip on her tightens. 

“You okay?”, he asks her, lips pressed against her ear. He feels her nod. 

She doesn’t pull away. She doesn’t go back to the safe distance between them, and instead keeps her body still pressed to his own. His hands feel way too big on her body, and she’s overwhelmed for a moment. How would they feel on her exposed skin? Suddenly she feels an inexplicable urge to know his touch, to drown in his senses, and it pains her to realise she isn’t drunk anymore, not in the slightest bit. So, what the hell is she doing? 

“Let’s go home”, his lips brush her ear as he speaks, and this time there’s something in his voice. Something forbidden. She presses her legs together involuntarily, nods, and tells herself that she’s absolutely insane. 

They take an Uber to her apartment. 

In silence, the only thing louder than words are their hands tangled together. Ever since Bellamy intertwined their fingers to guide her out of the crowded club, they still haven’t let go. And she’s okay with it. 

When they get to her building, they still haven’t said a word. They walk slowly, seemingly in no kind of rush, and Clarke thinks that perhaps they were in a dream, and finally they’re starting to wake up. Yes, it’s probably that. They shouldn’t do anything stupid, anyway. They could jeopardise their mission. Their lives. 

She opens the door to her apartment, and removes her shoes immediately. Bellamy does the same. He takes his tuxedo jacket off as he makes his way to her couch, his go-to sleeping spot apparently, and she lingers in the kitchen for a lot more than necessary. She doesn’t know why. 

Bellamy is standing in the middle of the living room, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to his elbows as he looks at nothing in particular, and the only thing they can hear is the ticking on the wall clock. She can’t look at him, not now. Not when she’s about to do this very stupid thing. Outside there is no traffic or bird song, by now it must be near three in the morning. 

Clarke can feel the fear in her chest waiting to take over. Perhaps it only wants to protect her, but she knows there really isn't any danger. It takes her a minute to realise, but then it hits her. 

_ He _ is the danger. 

In a split second her whole universe collapses. 

Bellamy walks silently towards her, decision yet hesitation in his step, until both his hands are around her again, her back pressed to the kitchen counter, and fuck. 

_ Fuck it. _

She kisses him. 

His lips are rough, just like she expected them to be, and so is his touch. Dominant, holding her steady. Her fingers tangle in his hair, pulling at it slightly so he can feel her toughness too. This is something she’s never felt before — she wants to kill this man, but at the same time she wants to fuck him senseless. He seems to have the same internal struggle, too. 

Bellamy’s hands reach her ass, squeezing hard before she gets the message and jumps to wrap her legs around his torso. Her dress moves up to her waist as he catches her, but she doesn’t care. She’s pretty sure he doesn’t, either. 

She feels like she’s floating on air as he carries her to the bedroom. Some would compare it to heaven, his lips on hers and his hands where she wants them to be — but with Bellamy Blake this can only be hell. 

And if this is what burning in the depths of hell feels like, then she’ll fucking burn for life. 

Her back collapses with the mattress, and he shows no mercy as he attaches his lips to her neck, kissing and biting and everything else that is so forbidden between them. She sighs contently, and keeps pulling at his hair. 

“I told you I had a thing for necks,” he murmurs against her skin. It takes her a second, but she remembers. 

The day they met, in his classroom. He had almost choked her to death, asked if she had a thing for necks too. Who would’ve thought she’d end up fucking her TA? The target she was supposed to kill just a few weeks ago? Nothing matters anymore but his hand on hers. Bellamy’s hand starts roaming lower, and she suddenly forgets about everything else. She wants him to touch her, needs it so desperately. 

“Where do you want me, Princess?”, he has the nerve to ask as his fingers roam the slim fabric of her underwear. He’s a fucking tease.

And so she groans, because she really can’t articulate any words right now. In an act of sudden bravery she grabs his hand, and guides it exactly where she wants it to be. He smirks.

Bellamy hums as slowly, too slowly, sets her underwear aside. That’s it. She’s completely exposed to him, to her doubtful ally, to her likely-still rival, and she only feels one thing. Lust. 

He wastes no time, as if he wanted to drive her insane with his touch but not too much, and drags a careful finger up her already soaked slit. He’s about to explode just from looking at her. 

“Fuck, babe,” he grunts, the nickname making her release a throaty sound she hadn’t ever heard before, “You want to be fucked, huh? You like it rough?”

He’s playing a dangerous game. There are no winners here. But perhaps, just like her, he’s only after one thing. And she’s going to get it. 

“Mm,” she murmurs, eyes closed in ecstasy, eager to know what else he has in store for her. More danger, she hopes, “I like it  _ very _ rough.”

He grunts, because he knows it’s true. Slowly but determinedly, he sinks a finger into her, walls clenching around him immediately, and  _ fuck _ . Fuck everything. It doesn’t take him long to figure out her rhythm. Fast, hard. She likes to be fucked mercilessly, and he’s more than ready to give it to her, to make her scream. 

“Bellamy,” she whines, back arched in a kind of pleasure she’s never felt before. His other hand is gripping tightly at her waist, and she’s so overwhelmed it feels like she’s drowning. 

Instead of answering, he decides he wants to prolong her sweet suffering, and replaces his soaked finger with his tongue. And she explodes. Clarke is a mess of high-pitched moans and twitching for the next five minutes, until she  _ begs _ him to stop. He does, but not because he’s tired of devouring her. He’s already far gone, addicted, and it feels so fucking good.

“Condom,” he groans once her eager hands land on his belt, and she looks annoyed for a second until she looks at him, and sees that he’s dead serious. Whatever. She knows it’s the right thing. 

So she searches quickly in her night dresser, because she for sure has to have at least one of those. And sure enough, she finds one under her hidden gun. Once she checks it’s safe to use, she tosses it to him. 

Bellamy smirks, “Eager much?”

“Shut up and fuck me.”

His smirk only gets bigger, mischievous, because he fucking loves this side of Clarke so much. So demanding, so decisive. And he’d fucking love to fuck her too. 

She surprises him by letting him be on top — not that he’s imagined what having sex with her would be like, of course not, but for some reason he expected her to be the one on top. He’s not complaining. 

Clarke knows she’s not drunk anymore, and she knows she’s fully awake. So why the hell does this feel like a dream? 

When she feels his weight over her, so overwhelming and so forbidden, she lets go. She doesn’t know if there’s a reason why she’s about to let Bellamy Blake fuck her, if this is some wicked plan of the universe, what consequences it will have on their jobs, but this is what feels right in this moment. And she’s gone long enough without not allowing herself to get what she wants. 

So she lets go. 

Bellamy pushes inside of her, just the tip at first, carefully. He knows how she wants it, but he also knows that won’t please her as much as this will. And he wants to drive her insane. 

It doesn’t surprise him to find that she’s already wet, but she’s also so fucking tight it’s soon pushing him over the edge. Her walls contract around the tip of his cock as he pushes himself deeper, and he can tell it’s already too much for her. But he also knows a little bit of Clarke, and he’s certain she won’t say anything about it. Too proud to show weakness. 

When her hands hold onto his strong arms for support, he stops, “How are you holding up?”

“I’m good,” she responds immediately, and he almost rolls his eyes, “It’s a good kind of pain. K-Keep going.”

He’s still not sure, “If it hurts, I can—”

“Bellamy,” her voice is a warning, and her hand travels to the back of his head so that she can guide his eyes to hers. He absentmindedly licks his lips, “Fuck me like you hate me.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. 

His cautious rhythm is soon replaced by hard, deep thrusts that overwhelm all his senses. He hopes she’s able to feel how much he fucking hates her, how badly he once wished to kill her, how he’s been thinking of nothing else but his hands around her neck for days. 

And so he chokes her. 

When his hand wraps around her neck, the pressure there and the sweet pain between her legs make her see the stars. She moves her hips in compass with his own, thrusting fast and hard and moaning and sweating. His lips hover over hers, and temptation to bite on them is so much she has to shut her eyes in desperation. 

She groans. 

“What is it?”, he asks her, a mischievous smile on his face as he pounds into her harder and deeper, “Is this rough enough for you, Princess?” 

“Fuck,  _ yes _ , Bellamy,” she moans, and she’s pretty sure her poor bed won’t survive tonight. He’s pounding so hard that she’s almost glad his hand is around her neck to hold her steady. 

All the killer stares, all the tension, all the anger is travelling from their souls, realising into each other’s bodies until they collapse, and disappear. He thrusts into her, pounding into the mattress until she needs to wrap her legs around his waist for support. She’s enjoying every damn second of it. 

Soon Bellamy feels her walls contracting around his length, and it’s about to drive him over the edge. His hand untangles from her neck and holds her own, fingers intertwined and eyes sharing things they already know but don’t want to voice out loud. 

“Fuck, Bellamy, I’m… I’m so fucking close,” she manages to let out amongst all the moaning.

He presses his forehead to hers, free hand travelling between her legs until his middle finger is drawing vicious circles on her clit. This is it for him, too. 

“Come for me, sweet thing. Come on my cock. That’s it. Good girl.”

Clarke screams as she comes, and he grunts so loud he resembles a fucking animal. And perhaps this is what sex with Clarke Griffin turns him into. He’s not complaining. 

He plops down next to her, breathing heavily and sweaty all around, but she doesn’t seem to mind it. Her eyes are lost somewhere up in the ceiling, and Bellamy wonders for the first time if perhaps this was a big mistake. 

Yet he doesn’t say anything. 

The minutes pass. 

He’s not sure how long they’ve been laying down on her bed, avoiding eye contact with each other, but it sure does feel like an eternity. 

“Bellamy?”, here it goes. He gulps. 

“Yeah?”

Silence. She’s going to ask him if this was a mistake, tell him it shouldn’t happen again. And while he thinks he would agree, it doesn’t feel right. 

“Why haven’t you ever killed anyone?”

He blinks, not expecting this one. He’s just exposed himself to her, physically at least, but to open his mind, his heart for her to see… He’s not sure he’s ready yet. 

“Why should I?”

Clarke frowns, “Don’t avoid the question.”

He peeps over at her. She’s not looking back at him, “What if I don’t want to answer?”

She rolls her eyes, “As if I’m ever going to tell anybody.”

“You wouldn’t?”, he frowns, unsure of when she became so considerate. 

Clarke shrugs, “I’m not telling anyone what just happened, either. I can keep another secret while I’m at it.”

“Alright,” he chuckles, and braces himself for the consequences of running his fucking mouth. He’s still not sure why he gave in as he says, “Because of my mother.”

Now Clarke is intrigued, “I’d need you to elaborate on that,” she gives him a small smile, because she understands. She can see the pain right through his seemingly innocent words, clear as day. 

His heart races as he lets out the words, “She… um. She had an affair with a politician some years ago,” he gulps, and pretends he doesn’t notice Clarke’s burning stare on him, “She didn’t know he was married, because he never told her and he wasn’t that relevant anyways. Not the kind of guy you can look up on the Internet.”

“So, long story short. Someone caught them, sold the story to the press, and they were outed. Because a political affair was scandalous at the time, no matter how famous you were. He blamed the whole thing on my mother, said it was her fault, that she  _ seduced  _ him,” Clarke can feel the disgust on his voice as he speaks, and her stomach drops, “The asshole called her awful names in public, villainized her to the point where she couldn’t even go out in public without being made fun of.”

“My Mom has always had a fragile mental health, but she was getting better. Then this happened and…,” she can hear his heart breaking, and so does hers, “She couldn’t take the public hate, the humiliation anymore. It followed her wherever she went. So, yeah. One night I came home and found her lifeless body in the bathroom. She overdosed on pills.”

She’s breathless, “Bellamy…”

“It’s okay,” he’s quick to add, “We’re fine now. My sister and I. It’s been seven years.” 

She resists the urge to hug him, hold his hand,  _ something _ . But she doesn’t know how he’ll react to her touch right now, so she simply says, “I’m very sorry that happened to you.”

“Me too,” he mutters, “Shit happens. That’s why I joined Trikru — I didn’t want those fucking assholes to run around terrorising women anymore. Getting away with shit. That’s what we do, that’s what Eligius does. We put those corrupt politicians to rot in jail.”

“Among other things,” Clarke reminds him. She’s gotten gang leaders arrested or killed, cult leaders, thieves. Killing had never been in her plans, but dying sure as hell wasn't either. So, when she saw she couldn’t get out of a situation alive, she pulled the trigger. 

“I don’t kill because then I’d be taking someone’s life, just like my mother took her own because of that man. He killed her,” he concludes, eyes lost in the darkness, “And I don’t want to be the reason someone leaves this world.”

She understands. She can’t relate to him, not yet, and perhaps not ever, but she understands. And she respects him for that. 

“What about you?”

She blinks in surprise. She never expected him to be curious about her life, but she’s not about to say no when he’s just shared a  _ huge _ portion of his. 

“I joined because I wanted to get revenge on people like my mother,” she explains, plainly, “She’s a Senator. There was a big scandal some years ago, something to do with fraud. I don’t remember much, because I was younger and I guess I didn’t understand how big of a deal it was.”

Bellamy listens attentively, “But anyways. When she was caught, she blamed my Dad to save her ass. I don’t know who she bribed in that trial, but he’s now in jail for it. And she’s running around with some uptight boyfriend, who I saw at the party today by the way, and I’m pretty sure she’s still a fucking fraud, living her best life in Arkadia. But what’s new.”

He whistles long and deep, making her smirk, “Lets just say we’re both pretty fucked up,” she concludes, which makes him smile too. 

“I didn’t expect any less from the best assassins in Polis.”

She’s about to respond when her phone starts ringing. She frowns, and wraps a blanket around her naked body so she can go find it. 

It’s Diyoza. But it’s also nearly four in the morning, so this is weird. 

“Oh good, you’re up,” she hears her voice from the other line, and guesses she’s still in Eligius Headquarters, “Is Bellamy with you?”

The question takes her by surprise. And the woman notices it too, because soon she adds, “You know what? I don’t want to know. Listen,” right. She needs to pay attention, “Raven has somehow located McCreary in the same place for the past six days. It can’t be a coincidence. I’m sending you the address right now and you and Bellamy need to go first thing in the morning. Come by to get your equipment.”

“Okay,” she nods, feeling the excitement creeping in. For some reason, after her conversation with Bellamy she doesn’t fear death anymore, “What’s the plan?”

“Torture him. Find out who sends him. Kill him. Then kill his leader.”

Clear, concise, “Got it.”

When she hangs up, she receives Diyoza’s text immediately. Her face turns white. 

“Hey,” Bellamy appears behind her, naked except for his underwear, “Was that Diyoza?”

She gulps, “They found a lead on McCreary. We have to go in the morning.”

“Great,” he looks over at her, “Where to?”

Clarke can’t believe this is happening. She can’t believe she has to go there.  _ Fuck _ , when will she take a fucking break?

She lets the phone fall off her hand and on the kitchen counter. She’s defeated. 

“Arkadia.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: shameless smut, explicit mentions of weapons, alcohol, drugs and suicide.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know. “But PLISA, it’s the weekend, why are you uploading today?”. Well, it’s a pleasure to tell you all that I’m an epilogue away from finishing writing this story, so from now on I will be updating Blind Trust *daily* 🥳
> 
> This chapter is probably the longest yet, and it’s pretty action-packed! Big things, and I’m telling you BIG things happen in this one, so read carefully 👀
> 
> Happy reading! 💙

Diyoza knows. 

That must be the only explanation for her weird, side stares this morning, Clarke thinks. Nothing ever escapes that woman, and this is no exception. But she decides that she doesn’t really want to find out, because quite honestly she isn’t ready for any type of awkward conversations today. So she listens attentively as Raven goes over every piece of equipment he’s passing over to a confused and lost- looking Bellamy. 

“This is to...hack the computer?”, Bellamy frowns, unsure if he’s even understanding half of what the girl is saying. In his defence, she talks way too fast. Why is she assuming that he knows what this is all about?

“No,” Raven answers, annoyed, “ _ This _ is for the computer,” she picks up a small USB flash drive thing and waves it in front of his face, “Plug it in and you’ll give me access to hack it.”

“Got it,” he replies, but Raven still isn’t sure. 

She turns her attention to her friend, “Earth to Clarke.”

The blonde blinks, “Yeah.”

“Wake up, dude,” Raven shakes her head in disbelief, “Rough night?”

She has no idea. Clarke just hums, and lets her go back to her exhaustive explanation. 

So what if Bellamy and her spent the night together? So what if she’s actually tempted to do it again? If she’s being completely honest, her hatred for him isn’t gone just yet — and it won’t be going anytime soon, she thinks. The man literally tried to kill her. And he would have, if he hadn’t been such a coward. 

They don’t tell you not to sleep with your rivals when you first get the job, but Clarke is pretty sure that’s some kind of unwritten rule. And it applies to co-workers too, since that’s what they are now. TAs, too. 

God, she’s screwed. 

Bellamy’s paying attention, really, but his brain isn’t processing a single thing. When Raven hands him the fifth garment, he asks her why she doesn’t come along with them. She just laughs. 

“I’m being serious,” he frowns, “Wouldn’t it be easier and faster if you just came with us?”

“Nobody that isn’t an agent will go anywhere,” Diyoza announces firmly, “Normally I would assign other spies to go with you, but you’ll be infiltrating in what probably are Azgeda’s Headquarters — we don’t need the whole family there.”

He doesn’t say anything to that, still taken aback by her authority. He’s heard all about Charmaine Diyoza in his time as an agent — she’s a myth, a legend, someone you absolutely don’t want to cross paths with. And she’s standing in front of him, stare so intense he feels it burning in his skin. Then, he remembers. 

He’s still her target. 

“We’re leaving,” he hears Clarke’s voice next to him, and he forces himself to wake up from his thoughts. But when he looks at her, his mind is flooded again. 

Last night was… something. Definitely something. That drastic turn of events hadn’t been in his plans, but he couldn’t say he regretted a thing. He still doesn’t know what took over him when he kissed her in her kitchen, when his hands roamed her body, when he made her scream in raw pleasure. 

But now he needs to focus. Their life is at risk,  _ her _ life is at risk, and no one will cause her any harm as long as he’s around. But he needs to pay attention. 

The ride up to Arkadia shouldn’t take them too long, Bellamy estimates. Less than an hour at the speed they’re going. Yet he can’t wait for it to be over already as he notices Clarke fidgeting on the passenger seat next to him. A brief flashback of her bleeding out on that same spot races through his mind, and he shivers. It seemed like so long ago, like another life. But it isn’t. 

She’s nervous, that much is evident. And he’s not that stupid — he knows why. Although it’s rather improbable that she sees her Mom in Arkadia, for some reason Clarke’s head can’t stop spinning. He’s basically  _ hearing _ her think. 

And he can’t take any other second of it. 

“So,” he starts, hopeful to drift her attention somewhere else, away from the impossible scenarios she’s been making in her mind for the past twenty minutes, “Your apartment is quite boring.”

“Great way to start a conversation,” she huffs, and rolls her eyes in response. 

“What I mean,” he quickly adds, “Is that there are no personal touches to it. No pictures, no weird little statues, no books. What’s the deal with all of that?”

She shrugs, “What kind of pictures would I put up anyways?”

He’s smart enough not to bring up her family — he doesn’t want to get stabbed while driving. He’s joking, he’s joking. Or at least he hopes she wouldn’t do it, “Friends?”

“I don’t have any pictures with them,” she says, “Or that many friends at all.”

His mind quickly goes through every person he’s seen Clarke with, “What about Raven? Or Monty?”

She shrugs again, “I guess they’re more like co-workers,” she explains, “We’re friendly and all, but it’d be weird to have a picture with them on my walls,” she imagines the whole thing in her head, but she isn’t convinced. 

After that, Bellamy stays quiet. Now that he thinks about it, it’s probably not the smartest move to have pictures of the people you love in your home if you’re an assassin. Who knows who can follow you home. People like him might, but with far more cruel intentions. 

“What about you?”, she surprises him by asking, “Any pictures with friends and family on your walls?” 

Bellamy smiles shyly, “I only have a picture of my mother and O on my desk,” he says, and she guesses that might be his sister. It’s the first time he’s said her name. Well, or similar, “The rest is just books and some nerd stuff.”

“Nerd stuff, huh?”,  _ now _ she’s interested, “Like what, exactly?”

His plan worked. She’s distracted, “I have a small figurine of Julius Caesar in my living room. Collecting dust, but.”

Clarke arches an amused eyebrow, “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me,” she smirks, “What else?”

Well. He has nothing left to lose, “I used to have a, mind you, very cool Infinity War poster above my bed, but I had to take it down.”

“Why?”, she asks, genuinely alarmed by his decision. 

Bellamy shrugs, “It was kind of embarrassing to bring people over to, you know,” he clears his throat in an attempt to hide his ridiculous blush. Of course she knows. She even knows what it feels like, “Now it’s inside my closet.”

“I’m offended,” she teases him, “If anything, that poster would make me want to fuck you harder.”

His breathing stops. And so does hers when she realises what she’s just said, “I mean, it’s um, it’s cool that you like Marvel and all that. I don’t think you should hide your interests so that someone would sleep with you. No matter how nerdy they might be.”

“That’s good advice,” he says, trying to erase her previous words from his mind. Is he really considering putting the poster back up? What for? He wants to punch himself, “We are here.”

His words make her spine curve with a shiver, and she’s absolutely not ready. She doesn’t know why Arkadia makes her feel like this, so fucking tense all the time. It’s not like she’s going to walk into Azgeda’s Headquarters and come face to face with her mother. Right? 

“Ready?”, Bellamy asks her, already charging his gun and grabbing the backpack with all of Raven’s ridiculous devices. 

Clarke frowns, looking at the building in front of her. It’s literally a pet shop, “Are you sure we are in the right place?”

Bellamy isn’t entirely sure either, but he trusts their spies, “Yes. Let’s go.”

She follows him. She still doesn’t know where exactly it is that they’re going, but she trusts him. 

Paradise Pets definitely had seen better days. The white and blue sign above the front door is dirty and unkempt, and so are the exterior walls, the blue paint on them slowly coming off. Inside, an old man in glasses sits behind the counter, head partially hidden behind today’s newspaper. Clarke sees no animals inside except for a couple of aquariums. 

On the left to the store, there’s a narrow passageway that seems to lead to the back of the building. Bellamy doesn’t hesitate as he walks through it. 

She’s following him, hand tightly wrapped around her hand, “Do you know where we are headed?”

Bellamy looks around the empty patio at the back of the building. Empty, “I’m working with what Echo managed to map out about this place,” he tells her in a low voice, “Trust me, Princess. I’ve dealt with worse.”

She trusts him. There is no doubt in her mind now, and it’s kind of alarming. Because even though they’re quite the unusual allies now, their past is still difficult to forget. The fact that she should be dead, that he should’ve killed her long ago, is difficult to forget. 

But there’s one thing in her mind, one very tiny detail, that she can’t seem to shake off no matter how much she tries, “I know this isn’t the right moment to ask you this,” she starts, and Bellamy’s shoulders tense at her voice, “But, why  _ Princess _ ?”

His heart starts racing faster and faster, and he can’t look at her right now. He keeps on walking, eyes scanning their surroundings at all times, but he’s not fully focused. How could he?

“It just suits you,” he goes for, eyes quickly going down to the screen with the map Indra sent him earlier. He signals her to follow him through a wooden door quietly, “Blonde hair, blue eyes. You know. Pretty stereotypical.”

She grips at her gun tighter when she hears the distant sound of footsteps. Silence washes over them until a small rat runs past them. She lets out a quiet sigh, “Well, I live in no castle, you know? And my life isn’t a fairytale either.”

Bellamy swallows, “Would you like it to be?”

She ponders this for a moment. Perhaps a fairytale is a bit out of reach, but she definitely wishes for a calm, safe life at some point. Would that fall into that category? Before she can answer him, Bellamy brings his finger to his mouth, signaling her to be quiet. He’s taller than her, also much bigger and stronger, so it doesn’t take him much effort to push a rusty metal panel aside on the wall. And bingo. 

He turns his flashlight on once they’re inside. It’s a tunnel. It’s too narrow, but he thinks they can make it work. 

“Follow me,” he says, and wastes no time as he climbs into the small hole. It’s definitely too tiny for him, and he can’t turn his head to look back at her, which is making him anxious, “You okay back there?”

“Yeah. Wait,” she’s small enough to move around a little, and she thinks the wiser thing to do would be to put the metal panel back on to leave no traces behind. So she does, “Okay. Let’s go.”

The tunnel is humid and dark, and it smells funny. He’s not 100% it’s leading anywhere helpful, but he trusts Echo’s skills. She used to work for them, after all. And his instincts have never failed him either. So he keeps crawling into the deep hole of nothingness. 

Until he sees something. 

It’s an air outlet grille, too small to fit either of them, but enough so he can look below. And sure enough, bingo again. 

Azgeda’s Headquarters are similar to Eligius’, but still quite not as cutting-edge. From his position, he can see a small room with a couple of computers inside, but nobody is there. It would be the perfect spot to come out of the vent, but it’s too small. They need to look further. 

He can’t talk to Clarke and tell her his plan because his voice could be heard, but he quickly finds that he doesn’t have to. The girl is reading his mind like an open book. 

So they keep crawling into the darkness until another hint of light appears at the end of the tunnel. And this one is a lot bigger. 

He peeps inside, and sure enough there’s a man in there. Just their luck, huh? But he pays no mind to him when he notices the computers and the scans, and  _ shit _ . They look perfect to hack. 

This part of the vent is a bit wider, so he manages to turn around just a little to look at Clarke, “Gun,” he mouths to her, and she nods, “Going down.”

But she shakes her head violently, looking down at the airlock, “You won’t fit,” she whispers, “I’ll do it.”

He weights this, and it’s leaning towards a bit fat no. So he shakes his head no too, “I’m going down.”

Clarke crawls up to him desperately, and yanks his arm back before he can get the vent open, “ _ Stop _ .”

His eyes pierce into hers for longer than they should, and that’s how he knows he’s just lost this battle. He hates to admit that he’s been an overprotective piece of shit when he absolutely has no reasons to — Clarke has proved time and again that she’s the deadliest in the game. But he can’t help it. 

So he nods, even if a little bit against his own will. 

“You got this,” he whispers, and for a second he thinks she’s about to kiss him. Her eyes linger on his for longer than what would be convenient, and then dart quickly to his lips. He’s not crazy. He isn’t. 

Yeah, she’s got this. 

She tucks her gun on her boot, secures the knife on her belt, and takes a look inside. The only man in the room has his back turned to her, and is typing something away in a computer. Easy. 

Bellamy quietly removes the grille, and she takes a deep breath before jumping into the room. She can do this. 

Before the poor man has a chance to notice someone else busted into the room, Clarke throws her knife at him, aiming to the back of his neck. He lets out a gagging sound, eyes wide open as if clinging to life with all his strength, and she sprints towards him. She grabs his head, takes the knife out, and slashes his throat with it. 

He plops down to her feet, lifeless. 

“You can come back down now.”

Bellamy hesitates, but surprisingly the hole is not that small. He tries to avoid the dead man on the floor as he takes Raven’s devices out of his backpack, “Go watch the door. We don’t have much time.” 

Clarke does as she’s told, but still keeps a careful eye on him. 

Right. The USB thing. He looks for a place to plug it in, but the tension is getting the best of him. If they’re busted, Clarke is at the door. They’ll shoot her first. He drops the tiny device, and grabs his gun instead, “I’ll watch the door.”

Clarke is surprised to find him by her side next, but she’s not going to fight back now. They’re running out of time. 

Quickly, she plugs in the hearing device Raven gave her before they left, and picks up the USB, plugging it in, “Can anybody hear me?”

It takes her a couple of eternal seconds, but finally, “Loud and clear, Clarke. This is Raven. Is it plugged in?”

“Yes,” she tells her, eyes quickly darting towards Bellamy. She’s never seen him so on edge. 

“Alright, I’m in,” Raven informs her, and she can’t say she’s surprised by her speed, “Give me a couple of minutes and you can leave.”

“Okay.”

She can feel her heartbeat, her pulse ringing in her ears, and that can’t be good. Footsteps come from the other side of the door, then muffled voices, but Bellamy doesn’t move. If they find them, he’s not going to let them touch a single hair on her head. Not without protecting her first. 

Luckily for them, nobody checks in on the man lying dead on the cold floor just a few feet away. 

“Almost got it,” Raven says, which makes breathing a little bit easier for Clarke. Alright. They got this. They’ll find out who McCreary works for, and then they’ll kill both of them. They’ll take Azgeda down. It sounds too easy to be true, but she also knows Diyoza doesn’t play around.

Or at least that’s what she convinces herself will happen, until she looks up. 

“Bellamy…”

This can’t be. Staring right back at her, a security camera. A blipping red light. She swallows, feeling the cold sweat on her body.

Bellamy doesn’t need an explanation to understand. 

“Raven,” her voice is more urgent now, “Raven, there’s a camera here. We’ve run out of time.”

“Give me forty seconds.”

Footsteps. 

“We don’t have forty seconds.”

She eyes the vent they just came out of, and she immediately knows that’s not an option anymore. They’re trapped.

“Thirty.”

Bellamy prepares to shoot whoever dares to open that fucking door, whoever attempts to harm her. The adrenaline kicks in, and he’s never felt more ready in his life. 

“Twenty.”

Voices. They’re clear now — just a couple of men, he estimates, three maximum, or at least that’s what he’s hoping for. He’s not planning to die today. 

“Ten.”

_ Come on, come on _ . Clarke has her own guns ready, Bellamy’s backpack already hanging over her shoulder. The men outside start banging at the door, probably trying to knock it down, and she’s never felt so on edge. 

Then, she remembers who she is. Clarke Griffin, best hitwoman in Polis. No Azgeda man stands a chance against her. 

“Where’s our nearest exit?”, she asks him, voice so firm it even takes him by surprise. 

Bellamy has memorised this map by heart, “Left, left. Right. Left. Red door to the right.”

“It’s done!”, she’s never been so happy to hear Raven’s voice in her life.

Quickly, she unplugs the small device and throws it inside the backpack. Gripping at both of her guns, she’s ready for whatever is waiting on the other side of the door, “Let’s get out of here.”

Just as she lets out the words, three Azgeda guards knock out the door, guns ready, and Bellamy doesn’t hesitate. 

He doesn’t hesitate as he shoots the first bullet, hitting the guard on his leg. It’s not enough. So he shoots again, another bullet on his head. And another one. It all moves in slow motion for him as he takes his first life, as he makes sure he kills his first target. 

His hands are trembling, and for a second he can’t hear anything but his own heartbeat. 

He’s just killed somebody. 

Clarke has already shot one of them dead, and it doesn’t take her much to shoot the other one before they have a chance to react. Quickly, she grabs his hand and they get out of the room and into the hallway. 

An alarm is going off, and he’s never run so fucking fast. Clarke is in front of him, having memorised the route perfectly, and it doesn’t take them long to be chased down by a mob of Azgeda agents. Whatever. He’s already shot one man dead — what’s a handful more? 

Clarke doesn’t know how they’re going to make it out alive, but she doesn’t stop running. Her legs burn and her heart is about to explode, but she’s not going to slow down. She won’t die trying to find out who’s after her head. 

“I’ll slow them down!”, she hears Bellamy shout at her, and for a second she thinks she didn’t hear him right. 

“Are you out of your fucking mind?”, she shouts back. They’re only a couple of turns away from the exit. 

“For fuck’s sake, Clarke! Run!”

No. She’s not going to leave him behind. 

Everything is a blur after that. Guns go off, agents fall to the ground, more come, blood on Bellamy’s arm. 

_ Bellamy’s bleeding _ . 

Clarke’s internal alarms go off, and she knows they have to get out of there  _ now _ . She shouts his name, hoping he’d listen just this one time, and they keep running. She’s never tried this before, but this is quite literally a life or death situation. So she opens the backpack as quickly as she can, and throws Monty’s smoke grenade at them. 

“This way!”, she hears his voice amongst the chaos, and as a beacon of light, she follows it. 

Then, the red door. 

Bellamy gets there first, opening it for her. She almost throws herself to the other side. 

And there they are. Inside the pet store. 

He secures the door closed behind him, and Clarke notices that the old man behind the counter hasn’t moved. He hasn’t even looked at them. Suddenly, she feels a strong hand on her back. 

“Let’s go.”

They race towards the car, being completely ignored by the old man. What is his deal? Only once Bellamy is sitting behind the wheel does she remember. 

“Bellamy, you are bleeding,” she inspects his arm, and sure enough, there’s a blood stain showing on his jacket. He starts the car, “You can’t drive like this.”

He smirks, “Seems like it’s our only option. You don’t have a driver’s license, do you?”

“Well, no,” why is she feeling all shy about this?

“Perhaps I should teach you how to drive one of these days,” the smirk never leaves his lips, “For emergencies like this. That was a close call, huh?”

“How can you be so chill after  _ that _ ?”, she worries, immediately looking for some kind of cloth to wrap around his bicep. She finds a random t-shirt in the backseat, and rips it apart, “Does it hurt?”

“Like a bitch,” he chuckles, but shows no sign of weakness as Clarke wraps the thin cloth around the wound. Luckily for him, the bullet isn’t inside his arm, “Where to, Princess?”

She debates it for a minute, “Well, you need to get this mess fixed.”

“I’m not going to the hospital.”

“I can take a look at you in my apartment.”

He nods, “Sounds great.”

So, they’re going back to her apartment. Alright. He shouldn’t really be making up any scenarios in his head, but he can’t help it. Then, it hits him, “How do you know all that medical stuff?”

The question seems to catch her off guard. She stiffens in her seat, “My Mom used to be a Doctor before she became a Senator,” a past that feels so foreign now, “She wanted me to know all those things for whatever reason. But it paid off.” 

He nods, but doesn’t want to push it more than he needs to. He has a million questions about her mother, her father, but he doesn’t voice them out loud. Instead, “You should probably call Diyoza.”

And so she does. As she talks to her, she looks over at Bellamy. His eyes are locked on the road ahead, but his mind seems distracted. Then, it hits her. 

He’s just killed someone to protect her. 

* * *

They enter her apartment in silence. 

She goes straight to her medicine cabinet to get out everything she needs, and he walks towards the couch. He carefully takes off his jacket, places it on the cold floor at his feet. And waits for her. 

He’s just killed someone. 

A man with a family waiting for him at home, probably, to save themselves. To save  _ her _ . 

He fired his gun, and in that moment he was powerful. He had the power to decide who lived and who died, who came out victorious. He doesn’t want to feel that power ever again. 

Bellamy hears her footsteps approaching, but he can’t react. His eyes are lost somewhere far away from her living room, in a place where he isn’t a fucking criminal. Because no matter what his job title says, TA or hitman, no matter how good his intentions are, he’s a fucking murderer. 

He’s no better than the man who caused his mother to take her life. 

Clarke is kneeling in front of him, between his legs, inspecting his wound, but he can’t look at her. He almost killed her too, not that long ago.

“Can you, um, remove your t-shirt?”, she asks, and he immediately obligues, moving on auto-pilot. Clarke gives him a weird look, but he’s not looking at her. He can’t. 

She starts cleaning his wound without a warning, without a ‘this is going to hurt’. Yet he can’t feel anything. If he could feel any pain, he’s sure he would deserve it. At least it means he’s alive, unlike that Azgeda agent. 

“Bellamy,” her voice is soft, barely a whisper, and it sounds angelic. Perhaps he’s dead and has gone to heaven. 

He looks down at her, and for the first time she’s unable to read him. Clarke wraps the last clean bandage on his bicep, and hesitates before her hand travels to his face. Her cold fingers slowly caress the skin on his cheek, and he closes his eyes and leans on her touch. He’s never felt anything like this before, so calming. It almost manages to take his guilt away. 

“I killed someone today,” his whisper is rough, almost as if it physically hurt him to get the words out, “I deliberately wanted him dead. I shot him, Clarke. I made sure he stopped breathing.”

Her other hand is caressing his leg, assuring him that he’s not alone. She’s not going anywhere, “You did it to protect us.”

_ To protect me _ . 

“But I did it nonetheless.”

His face is hot under her touch, and he looks tired. She notices the bags under his eyes, the messiness of his hair, the cuts on his skin. This is the image of a broken man, and a broken woman would never be able to heal him. 

But she can try. 

“Bellamy,” she starts, shifting uncomfortably between his legs. 

He snaps his eyes open to look at her, and before he can hold himself back, he says, “Come here,” he pats his lap, and Clarke is breathless. He can feel the hesitation in her body, “Please, Clarke.”

_ I need to feel you close to me. _

Slowly, she sits down on his lap, which is a lot more comfortable than what she was expecting. He wraps both of his arms around her middle, securing her in place, and buries his face on the crook of her neck. She smells like blood and gunpowder, but there’s a hint of her characteristic smell there too. He wants to get high on it.

“Who we are and who we need to be to survive are two very different things,” she whispers as her fingers tangle between his curls. They’re soft, just like him, “You’re not a cold-blooded murderer, Bellamy. You’re not like me.”

“Clarke, you’re not—”

“Shh,” she doesn’t want to hear it. She doesn’t want him to say she’s not a murderer, because she is. And she’s okay with that, “If you need forgiveness, I’ll give that to you. You’re forgiven. But please, Bellamy, don’t ever think that you’re a bad man because of this.”

He is a bad man. Octavia thinks so, her mother probably does too, wherever she is. And although Clarke has blood on her hands as well, far more than he’ll ever have, he still doesn’t deserve to be around her. He’s a danger to her, a danger to everyone. 

“Bell,” almost as if she had heard his thoughts, Clarke’s hands are on his shoulders, shaking him back into reality, “I need you to look at me. Can you do that?”

He looks into her eyes, so deep, so blue, so fucking beautiful. 

“Good,” she smiles, “Now I need you to know that you’re not a bad man, alright? You killed someone today to protect me. I’m alive thanks to you.  _ Again _ , Bellamy. You spared my life more times than I probably deserve.”

“Clarke…”

“Do you know that?”

He can hear his heart beating. With a gulp, he says, “I know that.”

“What do you know?”

She’s testing him, and he can’t believe it’s working, “That I killed someone today to protect you. That I saved our lives today.”

Slowly, she nods. He did it. And it may sound weird, but she’s proud of him for having pulled that trigger. He’s brave, and she needs him to know that.

Bellamy hesitates. His mind is at ease now, at least more than it was before, and it’s all because of her. When he looks at her now, he doesn’t see hitwoman Clarke Griffin anymore. He doesn’t even see a student,  _ his _ student. 

He sees a scared, compassionate woman. A woman who’s still bearing with the pain someone wrongfully caused her, and now she’s the one suffering the consequences. A woman with the power of healing his heart, but not her own. 

A lost soul. Just like he is. 

Her fingers are still tangled around his curls, playing with them so softly he wants to fall asleep to her touch. His arms are around her, warm like fire. He could stay in this moment forever, if only forever existed. 

Her cold nose finds his, brushing it lightly, and suddenly it’s too late to go back now. Not like she wants to. 

His lips taste different that night. They’re not hungry, nor in a hurry. His lips feel defeated, tired, and she knows she has to take care of him. So she does. 

Hands on each side of his face, she brings her body closer to his naked torso, eager to feel him. His hands immediately go to her back, lifting her shirt slowly and patiently, until she’s equally as naked. His lips attach to her breasts then, and she whines at the sensation of his mouth wrapped around her nipple. So foreign, but so damn good. He sucks and twists, and it’s a good kind of hurt. 

But she misses his lips on hers. 

“Let me take care of you tonight,” her hand stops him as he reaches for her jeans. For once, Bellamy doesn’t fight back. 

When she sinks down into him that cold night, he swears he can see the stars.  _ Fuck _ , he can see all the goddamn constellations in this infinite universe. 

His hands guide her up and down, her own holding onto his shoulders carefully, as she takes him whole. Nobody has never ridden him like this, and he’s about to explode. She moves like she’s known his body for centuries, like they’ve done this a million times. Pushing his hips up, he pushes deeper into her, her walls contracting around his unbelievably erect cock, as he’s hers. 

He’s completely hers. 

Moans escape her lips in a way that sounds forbidden, and if this were some other time he would want to push her to the limit, make her scream his name. But not tonight. Tonight, he wants to feel her come undone as she rides him, as she takes him so viciously, as she takes care of him. Bellamy’s always been a protector, but being on the protected side feels incredible too. 

She wraps her arms around him, hiding her face on his neck, and he’s never heard her moan so desperately. His own arms wrap around her petite form, so delicate yet so deadly, and the way she feels so damn small around him is making him lose his mind. So tight, so small, so beautiful, so fierce. 

It becomes too much. 

“Clarke, I…”

He’s not sure she needs to listen to this, and he’s not entirely sure he wants to say it either, but as her walls contract around him once more and her ass bounces up and down his cock, he’s feeling too overwhelmed. He needs to say it, because it’s true. 

“Don’t say anything,” she shuts her eyes, feeling the wave come closer and closer to the shore, and she doesn’t want to listen because she’s scared of the realisation. She doesn’t want to face her feelings, or his, or nothing at all. She just wants to feel his cock ripping her apart. 

But Bellamy can’t hold it in any longer. It’s not just the sex that is making him delirious. It’s the way they work together, the way they protect one another. If she was gone, he doesn’t know what he would do with himself, and that fucking scares him to death. 

He grabs a handful of her hair, her golden Princess locks, and promises to himself that he’ll always be there for her, “I need you,” he whispers into her skin, and for the first time he’s not afraid anymore.

Her world stops, and ironically, it all starts making sense now. She presses her forehead to his, feeling the intensity of his stare, and allows herself to show him vulnerability, “I need you, too.”

They come undone between kisses and breathy moans, between whispers of ‘Bell’ and ‘Princess’, between silent revelations. He fills her without any barriers between their bodies, and she swears she’s never felt so fucking free. Bellamy thrusts into her one last time, releasing himself completely, and she takes it all in. She takes him whole. 

When their breaths even out, he holds her and doesn’t let go. For the first time in his life, he feels safe. And that’s ironic, given the kind of people they are, but his heart and soul are at peace with her between his arms. 

She plants lazy kisses on his neck and jaw before she dozes off to sleep, and just like that, Bellamy Blake is pretty damn sure he’s in love for the very first time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: explicit mentions of murder, blood, and smut.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I’m back with the daily updates! Only 3 more chapters to go, so secrets are going to be revealed soon... 👀
> 
> There’s a brief scene in this chapter that may be triggering to some people, so I’d advise you to read the warnings (they’ll be at the end as always). It’s nothing too bad, I promise! Just for the sake of the angst, but still.
> 
> Comments and kudos are highly appreciated 😊
> 
> Happy reading! 💙

“Charles Pike.”

“He’s been an agent for as long as the records show, and he’s been part of Azgeda for almost five years now. Apparently he was Roan’s second.”

That name. It should probably ring a bell, but it doesn’t. She’s for sure heard it somewhere, long ago. This is the man behind the plans to kill her — she should probably squeeze her brain a little harder for this one. 

“Which explains why he’s now in charge,” Raven adds after Diyoza’s little speech. Alright.

But Clarke is still confused, “All that is great, but why does this man want to kill  _ me _ ?”

She looks at the two women in front of her, and it’s pretty clear that they don’t have a definite answer. It’s bizarre that this Pike guy even knows who she is in the first place — she’s not been caught on camera. Ever. There are things she simply doesn’t understand, and by this point she’s too tired to ask. If a bullet between his eyes is what would take to set her free, then that’s what she’s going to do. 

Bellamy is sitting down a few metres away, listening to the explanation as Jackson finishes inspecting the wound on his arm. It burns like a motherfucker, but he’s not going to show weakness. Echo is standing next to him, arms crossed in front of her chest. 

“Our best guess is that someone hired Pike to do the job, which he later assigned to McCreary,” Diyoza explains, a hint of something in her voice, perhaps remember that man she once knew. The man they now have to kill. She doesn’t look too concerned about Hope not growing up with a father for all that’s worth, although Clarke suspects she already is doing exactly that, “I don’t think you’re a target of Azgeda, but of Pike himself.”

Well, that doesn’t make her feel any better. If he’s anything like Diyoza, or like Roan was, she’s as well as dead. 

“What we found in their headquarters was more than we were expecting,” Raven jumps in, “In a good way. I think it won’t be too difficult to trace Pike now.”

“But McCreary is still a threat,” Clarke points out. 

Diyoza’s voice echoes across the room, loud and clear, “And that’s why you’re going to kill him today.”

Bellamy’s eyes widen in horror, and it takes all the willpower within him not to push Jackson aside and sprint towards Diyoza. Is she serious? And why is she looking only at Clarke and not him? She can’t be planning on sending her by herself. Over his fucking dead body. 

“Do we know where he is?”, Clarke asks, and he panics. She can’t seriously be considering this as well. Is he the only sane person in this room? 

“We do not. But we will,” the woman smirks, “Now that we have access to Azgeda’s system, McCreary will go wherever we want him to go.”

It clicks in her head then, “You’re setting him up.”

“Correct,” Raven winks at her, “In a couple of hours, he’ll be all yours to shoot in the head.”

Clarke considers this. In a few hours, her worst nightmare might be over. Half of them at least, now that they also have Charles Pike to worry about. It feels too good to be true, and also kind of scary, but she’s taken down a lot of men before. What’s one more? 

The last one. 

Ever since her conversation with Bellamy, his mention of a fairytale, Clarke has been wondering if she would actually like to live in one. A world in which she’s a decent member of society, in which she has a normal job and a normal life, perhaps even a real family she can share it with, doesn’t sound too unappealing. It sounds necessary, almost. 

She knows Diyoza won’t hold her back in Eligius. If anything, she was too skeptical about her joining in the first place — what’s a 21-year-old student doing in an organisation like this anyway? And although their arrangement didn’t include killing at first, Clarke found it way more efficient than later dealing with the consequences of letting a threat run free. 

She’s not sure how many people she’s killed. Too many, and yet somehow not enough. Corruption in Polis has gone down considerably since Eligius and Trikru set foot on the state. A few threats here and there were enough to make them shit their pants, but nothing too bloody. Access to hidden files that would expose an endless number of corruption schemes is Raven’s speciality, and that’s why the government has been in a witch hunt for as long as she can remember. Not like they’ll ever get caught. Diyoza is too good.

But she’s seen enough. She’s done enough. Perhaps she’s just freaking out because, for the first time ever, her life is on the line.  _ No _ — she knows this decision has been marinating in her mind for a while, and Bellamy’s speech last night only made her feel braver. Brave enough to quit. 

She can only hope her past won’t follow her into this more hopeful and brighter future she imagines in her head. 

So she swallows her fear, and braces herself for this last mission. She’s pretty sure Diyoza would want to kill Pike with her own hands, and she’s not going to make her kill her daughter’s father. She can do this. One last time and then, the fairytale. 

“Set him up now,” she states, decisively, “I can’t wait any longer.”

Diyoza nods to Raven, and she leaves as fast as she has come, “We’ll get your weapons ready.”

“Hey!”

Bellamy can’t take this any longer. Last night, he crossed a line. His heart crossed a line he can’t come back from, and now his whole being is aching for Clarke Griffin, for someone who probably sees him as nothing else than a temporary ally. A fuck buddy for the lonely nights. 

That’s what she’s supposed to be for him too, but she isn’t. 

He doesn’t know where these feelings came from, why  _ her _ . But he’s never felt a stronger connection to anybody, has never felt safer, calmer, like he belonged. Like he’s more than a fucking murderer. She makes him feel accepted in every way, because she’s just like him. 

And perhaps two broken souls could heal each other. 

Diyoza doesn’t look impressed as he speaks, but Bellamy doesn’t flinch under her imposing gaze, “You can’t send her by herself. Do you realise how dangerous this mission is?”

Clarke swallows. Yes, she’s pretty sure Diyoza knows who they’re dealing with. Bellamy locks eyes with her, and she silently shakes her head. This isn’t the time to fight.

“You’ve done enough already, Mr. Blake,” the woman answers, calmly, “And I’m thankful for that. But you’re injured and therefore won’t be of any use in this mission. Clarke can do it by herself.”

He doesn’t think his words through before he blurts them out, not really, “I refuse to let her go alone.”

He’s aware he sounds like a possessive asshole right now, but he’s never been this desperate. Clarke is going to die out there, and he would never forgive himself for it. He needs to be to protect her. 

Diyoza still isn’t impressed. In fact, she even looks offended by his words. Clarke prepares for hell to break loose, “You  _ refuse _ ? May I remind you that  _ I _ am the leader of this organisation, not you, and  _ I _ make the decisions here. Do you understand, or do I have to make you understand?”

“It’s too dangerous,” he insists, ignoring her warning, “She can’t go alone. Let me go with her.”

“When did you start caring so much, Mr. Blake?”, he doesn’t have to answer, because Diyoza already knows. It’s hardly a secret now. Clarke’s stomach drops at the realisation, “I said you’re not going anywhere.”

She can’t watch this any longer. This isn’t going anywhere, and she doesn’t want her leader to shoot him quiet, “Diyoza… it’s fine. He’s just worried. Can’t somebody else come with me?” 

The woman considers this for a moment, and she realises then that Diyoza almost never says no to her. So this has to work. 

“Okay. Tell Atom to get ready.”

And it worked. 

Diyoza leaves, but not before glaring at Bellamy as if her eyes were sharpened blades. Clarke waits until she’s gone, until Jackson and Echo take a few steps back, getting the message, and walks up to him. 

“What were you thinking?”

She has her arms crossed in front of her chest, and Bellamy can tell that she’s genuinely pissed. He’s agitated again, “No, Clarke, what were  _ you _ thinking? Were you seriously considering going unprotected?”

She frowns, “I’ve never needed your protection, Bellamy. Or anyone else’s. I thought that was pretty clear already.”

He lets out a dry chuckle, and suddenly she can’t recognise the man in front of her, “Right. May I remind you that you’re alive because of me, Princess? How many times have I spared your life? You’re not as infallible as you think.”

“Excuse me?”

“I know McCreary scares you,” he continues under her perplexed gaze, “I know you’ve been having panic attacks for the past weeks, I’m not fucking blind, Clarke. I know you’re trying to prove yourself to Diyoza, but I’m not letting you go if it’s gonna cost you your life.”

And just like that, he leaves her speechless. 

White knuckles from clenching her fist too hard, and gritted teeth from effort to remain silent — she’s burning, slicing, potent. Her face is red with suppressed rage, and when Bellamy attempts to open his stupid fucking mouth again, she mentally snaps. 

“Is that what you really think of me?”, she’s not being subtle, and she knows some people there have their eyes on them, but to her he’s the only one in the room, “I thought you knew me by now, after everything that’s happened between us, but I guess I was wrong. I’m just a weak, scared little girl, aren’t I? That’s what I am to you, you big, brave, protective man.”

“That’s not what I mean, Clarke—”

“You know what, Bellamy? I don’t want to hear it,” she composes herself, bottles her anger back up and decides that McCreary will pay the price of this argument, “I have places to be.”

“Clarke, don’t you dare walk away right n—”

Almost as if someone has pushed a button inside her head, she takes her gun and aims it between his eyes. The whole room falls silent around them, and Bellamy’s eyes widen in horror. 

She can’t possibly be serious. 

“ _ Clarke _ ,” Diyoza’s voice is a warning that brings her back to reality. She blinks, and lowers her weapon. What the fuck has just happened?

“I-I’m sorry,” she stutters, heart racing fast, palms sweaty. She has just pointed a gun at Bellamy. At  _ Bellamy _ . She’s quick to kneel down until her gun is safely placed on the ground for everyone to see, and she storms out. 

Heavy silence fills the room, and Bellamy is in shock. 

He’s already had Clarke’s gun pointed at him before, she’s even fired it with the sole purpose of killing him, but this is different. They’re not enemies anymore. They are far from it, or so he thought. Perhaps her feelings for him haven’t changed that much after all. 

“Bellamy,” a voice next to him calls. His mind is too blurry to identify who it belongs to, “Are you okay?”

He knows she would’ve never pulled the trigger. He’s sure of it. So why the fuck are his hands shaking? 

“She was just angry,” he finally recognises the voice. It’s Echo’s, “She wasn’t going to shoot you.”

He swallows, and nods, “I know.”

Echo locks eyes with Indra, who’s equally as shocked as she is by the scene that has just unfolded. The woman kneels in front of him, “This isn’t the first time someone has aimed a gun at you. Tell me what’s up.”

He looks at her, “We are friends now.”

“Sure you are.”

“What?”, he frowns. 

Echo looks back at Indra again, but she’s now talking to Diyoza. The spy lowers her voice, “Do friends fuck each other?”, he says nothing, and instead glares at her, “I wasn’t born yesterday.”

“It only happened twice.”

Echo resists the urge to laugh at him, “Once could be an accident. Twice, not so much,” she tells him, but he ignores her, “Are you angry that your girlfriend threatened to shoot you because you called her weak? She’s an assassin, in case you haven’t heard.”

“I don’t have time for this, Echo,” he states and he gets up suddenly. His arm burns like hell, but he has places to be. 

“Sure,” she continues as he starts to walk away, “I’d point  _ two _ guns at you if you called me weak, by the way. She’s a keeper.”

“Go to hell.”

Echo smirks, “I’m already there.”

  
  


* * *

Clarke is about to go ballistic. This Atom dude drives too slowly, and it’s making her insane. Not like she’s in a place to judge anyway, as she doesn’t even have a license, but whatever. Bellamy offered to teach her how to drive, but she doesn’t think that’s going to happen anymore. He’s pissed off, and she’s irritated. Which is a good thing to be for what she’s about to do, she thinks. 

_ Weak my ass. _

She knows she’s not weak. Perhaps she was a tad scared at first, but not anymore. Oh, McCreary would  _ wish _ she was a scared little girl when she blows his brain out. He doesn’t know what’s coming.

Raven sent him a fake Azgeda mission to the warehouse, the same one she killed Cadogan in, and he’s bound to appear any second now. She knows she has no time to waste, and that she shouldn’t be wasting it on Bellamy, but oh well. 

She never meant to threaten him like that, and she feels disgusting for it. Something took over her in that moment, as she wasn’t herself. It felt as if someone was writing her story, and decided to get stupidly drunk at that specific moment. She had no control over it, and became a completely different person then. She never points guns at her friends — if anything, she protects them for them. She can only hope Bellamy will be able to forgive her for it. Not like she really deserves it. 

She needs to focus. 

Atom isn’t the best company she can think of, but if Diyoza deemed him suitable for the mission, then she’ll take it. He’s just lighted up a cigarette, gun ready in his hand, eyes lost nowhere in particular. He still hasn’t said a word to her. How  _ entertaining _ . 

She wishes Bellamy was here. Not only because she truly, badly needs to apologise, but because she’s realised that she seems to feel truly safe only when he’s around. It sounds stupid, but she has a bad feeling clinging to her heart right now and she can’t shake it off. Perhaps because it’s her last mission, and perhaps the most important, and she doesn’t want to die while trying. Things seem to go smoothly when Bellamy and her are a team, but now he’s not here. 

Now she’s not feeling safe. 

_ Bang _ . 

For a moment, she thinks Atom must have spotted McCreary, and has fired without her permission. Diyoza put her in charge for a reason, damn it. Does he see her as a weak little girl, too? But then her eyes travel to the ground at her feet, and she sees him. 

A pool of blood emanating from Atom’s lifeless body.

“Well, well, well.”

She swallows, her pulse accelerating by the second. This can’t be. It can’t be him. 

“If this isn’t Clarke Griffin. Fucking finally.”

Paxton McCreary. _Graveyard_. He’s lived up to his nickname so far.

She takes both of her guns out and holds them as firmly as she can, and aims to his chest. This time he isn’t getting away. She smirks, definitely not feeling the confidence she exudes. But if Diyoza has taught her anything this past year, it is to fake it until she makes it. That is, if she makes it at all, “And I thought I’d never get to blow your brains out.”

The man chuckles, and it sounds like it does in all her nightmares. Evil, malicious, poisoned. She mentally shakes her head. There’s no time to be scared. She’s never been, and she’s not going to start today. 

“Don’t think you’re getting away with this one, baby,” he points his gun at her, “I’d say tell Diyoza I said hi, but you’re not leaving this warehouse alive.”

And he pulls the trigger. 

She ducks it just barely, but he’s nowhere near done. She makes it behind an old metal container just in time before his shooting rampage, but she knows she doesn’t have much time. She can’t stay hidden forever. She needs to fire back. 

The warehouse smells like blood and gunpowder, and it reminds her of the last time she was there. What she almost did. What she almost did today.  _ No _ — that’s a lie. She would never dare to hurt Bellamy, not when…

“You scared yet, little girl?”

McCreary’s voice pulls her back to reality, and she takes the chance to pull the trigger. One, two, three, four times. She misses his arm just barely. 

“Why do you want to kill me?”, she yells at him, unable to hold herself back any longer. If she’s going to die today, she needs to know first. She needs to find out at least why, if she’ll never get to know the who. 

But, of course, luck isn’t on her side this time, “I don’t give a fuck about motives,” he fires at her again, “I only follow orders.”

She grinds her teeth, and aims for his head once again. If he isn’t going to talk, then he isn’t of any use. Whatever. She’ll find out for herself, once they get to Pike. He’s merely a pawn in the game, and he’s about to die for it.

McCreary has brought a weapon arsenal with him, and he’s not running short on bullets. She barely has any time at all to react before he’s shooting again, and Clarke quickly realises that she has nowhere to run off to. There’s no escaping from this one.

She throws herself to the ground to dodge the bullets, and  _ fuck _ .  _ Fuckfuckfuckfuck _ . Her shoulder is burning, and it doesn’t take a genius to identify the source of her pain. She’s torn her wound open again.  _ Shit _ . And it’s her good arm. 

McCreary is making her way towards her, a satisfied smirk on his lips. He’s gripping his gun loosely, as if he knows there’s nothing between him and killing her now. She’s one more prey in his eyes, like an injured antelope is to a lion, and he’s about to devour her. 

So, this is how she dies. This is how it all is going to end. She never imagined it to be like this exactly, but she can’t say she’s surprised. Karma is finally getting back at her, and when she sees him pointing his gun between her eyes, the cold metal making her shiver, she closes them. She doesn’t want him to be the last thing she sees. 

Instead, her mind travels back to the previous night. To Bellamy and her at her apartment. She’s pretty sure now that they made love to each other, if that’s what making love feels like. It felt close enough. How his hands kept her steady and close, how she held onto him for dear life. How he told her that he needed her. 

And now she’s leaving him.

She’s leaving without a goodbye, without an apology, an explanation, an  _ I love you _ . 

She can’t believe herself right now, can’t believe it took her a fucking gunpoint situation to properly read her feelings. Bellamy is her fairytale, and now she will never get to live it. 

“Any last words?”

She’s not going to say shit to him — she won’t give him that satisfaction. Her last words are aimed at someone who’s not here. Who she will never see again. And she knows exactly what she would tell him. She can only hope he finds it within him to forgive her someday. 

“How about you take your filthy hands off my Princess, you fucking asshole?”

_ Bang.  _

_ Bang. _

She can’t open her eyes fast enough. McCreary falls to his knees in front of her, his gun flying out of his grip and crashing into the ground a few feet away, and Clarke can’t believe her eyes. 

“Bellamy...” 

He hurries to her side, and helps her back up as he keeps an eye on a bleeding McCreary next to him. He has one bullet in each leg, and he would gladly finish the job himself, but he knows this one isn’t his to complete. 

“We don’t have much time,” he hands her his gun, holds her hand tightly between his, “I’m sorry for what I said before. You’re the strongest person I know, and I’ll always admire you for that.”

She’s speechless. She doesn’t know how to react to his words, to the fact that he’s  _ here _ , but she doesn’t have much time to think when he says, “Kill your nightmares, Clarke.”

It all feels like a dream, but he’s right there. He’s really there, his hand on hers. Anxiety kicks in again, and she knows she has no time to waste. Another team from Azgeda could come in any second to rescue him. So she takes the gun, nods to Bellamy with determination, and then kneels next to McCreary. 

This is it. 

She grabs a handful of his dirty blond hair, and pulls his head back up. The cold metal of the gun clashes against his temple. She looks one last time into those eyes, the eyes that made her fear for her own life more times that she can count. She smiles. 

“I’ll tell Diyoza you said hi.”

And she pulls the trigger. 

Silence. 

The warehouse is washed by a wave of pure silence, and she can’t believe it’s done. That’s it. No more nightmares. No more pain. No more deaths. 

“Clarke.”

He saved her. He saved her again, spared her life once more, and it almost feels like that is the real fairytale of it all. She doesn’t hesitate as she launches herself into his open arms, and cries. She cries, and sobs, because McCreary is dead, and so is Atom, and so are many more people because of her. She cries as the tension finally leaves her body, as he glues her broken pieces back together. She cries because she’s finally safe. 

“Hey, hey,” Bellamy takes a few strands of loose hair and places them behind her ears carefully. Hands on both sides of her face, he presses his lips to her sweaty forehead, “It’s okay, love. I’m here. You’re okay.”

She nods quickly, breathing heavily, and unable to hold back the tears, “I’m okay.”

“Yes, yes you are,” he kisses her forehead again, and holds her until she calms down. They should probably get going as soon as possible, but he refuses to break the moment. 

A few minutes pass by until she can find her voice again, “I’m so sorry, Bellamy. I didn’t want to shoot you. I never intended to threaten you like that, and I feel like a fucking idiot for it. I was just pissed and—”

“Shh,” he brushes his nose quainter hers, like she did last night, so delicately it feels like the touch of a butterfly, and suddenly all her worries are gone, “I forgive you, Clarke. I forgive you because you’re alive, and so am I, and you’re the strongest person I know. I’m so fucking proud of you, Princess.”

She feels like crying again, but she manages to hold herself together this time, “You’re too good for me, Bell,” she says, because it’s true. What did she ever do to deserve his compassion, his protection, his support? 

“Weird,” he carefully brings his finger to her cheek to collect a falling tear that is clinging onto her lashes, “Because I think you’re perfect for me.”

She chuckles, lets the remaining tears fall, and for the first time in maybe forever, she feels happy. And he can’t get enough of it. They both know the danger isn’t fully gone, but that doesn’t mean they can’t take this moment to feel relieved. 

“Come here,” he helps her up to her feet, and attempts to carry her in his arms, but he flinches as he kneels down. 

“Bell,” she stops him, “It’s okay. I can walk. Come on, I need to take a look at that shoulder.”

He knows better than to fight her now, so he silently nods, until he remembers, “I bought a medical kit the other day,” he tells her, and she arches a playful eyebrow in response, “We can go to my apartment and, um, I’ll show you my Marvel poster while you take a look at my arm.  _ Shit _ , Princess, your shoulder is bleeding again. What the hell did you do? Let’s go right now. Can’t leave you alone for a second, fucking hell.”

Clarke laughs at his change of tone, and it’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard. He’s never felt such an urge to kiss her, to feel her close to him, so safely, and so he gives in. Perhaps they’re not there quite yet, but they’re both still alive. And he’s about to fucking celebrate that. 

It takes her by surprise when his lips capture hers, but it’s a good kind of surprise. She sighs contently into the kiss, and caresses his cheek softly to tell him that she’s here. That she isn’t going anywhere. 

Where would she go, when all she needs is right here?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Clarke points a gun at Bellamy’s head for like 2 seconds at some point. Some might find it triggering because of season 7, but obviously she doesn’t shoot him in this one. Again, the scene lasts two seconds. Also, the usual mentions of blood, guns and death. You get it by now 😅


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brace yourself for some intense possessive Professor Bellamy in this one... phew 🥵
> 
> Also, shit hits the fan today, and all secrets come to light. A lot of people commented in the previous chapter that they thought Abby had something to do with Azgeda... well, you’ll have to read to find out 👀
> 
> Warnings at the end as always.
> 
> Happy reading! 💙

His name rolls off her tongue like a forbidden plea. 

The way she moans when she’s under him, on top of him, when his face is buried inside her cunt, making her feel a kind of pleasure she’ll never know with anybody else. It is invasive to his mind, clouds his senses until he’s feeling numb, and can’t focus on anything else. Which, at times like this, it’s everything but convenient. 

“Mr. Blake?”, she asks again, because of course she knows what effect that name and her seemingly innocent voice has on him. 

He looks around the classroom briefly, the look on everyone’s faces telling him that nobody suspects a thing. Most of them aren’t paying attention anyways, their heads buried in their phones. And why would they? It’s just his paranoia taking over his head again, nothing real he should be worrying about. However, if it takes him any longer to answer, people will start looking at him weirdly. 

So he clears her throat, “Yes, Ms. Griffin?”

It feels weird, such formalities, when he’s had his mouth between her legs just the previous night. Perhaps she should call him Mr. Blake in bed — he wonders what effect that would have on him. It would drive him absolutely insane, he’s sure of that. Another word to corrupt, another fantasy to keep him distracted when he shouldn’t be. Like right now. 

Clarke asks something about the final paper, and he answers although he’s well aware that she already knew the answer. She’s teasing him. She’s forcing him to remember last night by looking at her, by talking to her — when he took her from behind and pounded into her until she screamed in agonising bliss. 

When he’s done pushing the poisoned thoughts away, he instructs the class to read the next passage, but of course her eyes don’t go down to the pages like everyone else’s. Of course they follow his. He gives her a look that means she’s in trouble, and she smirks. She likes it, she likes the danger that comes with him. 

Flashes from the previous night storm into his head as he waits for the students to finish with their reading. If anyone could look inside his head right now, he’s pretty sure they’d fire him on the spot. 

He rocked his hips against hers, taking all the pain and replacing it with pleasure. She came undone under him more times than he believed possible, louder than she probably should have. Clinging to the headboard of her bed, he made sure she could still feel it this morning, when she listened to his lectures and when he called her name to answer a question in class. 

When that stupid Finn Collins guy flirted with her.

He doesn’t know where this possessive streak comes from, but he’s not ready to give it up. He suspects he would never be. It’s not a question of protecting her life anymore — with McCreary gone, she’s not in so much danger now. It’s a question of  _ her _ . Just her. She’s his, and nobody else’s. 

Whenever someone  _ breathes _ her way, he stiffens, gets ready to jump in action. As he discretely watches the exchange between and that dumbass Collins, he loses confidence for a moment. 

She’s smiling. 

She’s listening to whatever irrelevant bullshit he has to say, and she’s  _ smiling _ . His blood boils with a kind of raw rage he can’t suppress anymore. Her eyes flick from Flinn to him and back again, and that’s how he knows she’s playing a very dangerous game. And she wants to lose. 

She flicks her wavy blonde hair to one side in what he knows to be a conscious act. So he looks, because she wants him to. Anyone else would imagine that she’s flirting with Flinn, and would never even think that her flirtation is targeted at her TA. But his pants are starting to feel a little tighter, and he needs to calm the fuck down. He’s in class, for fuck’s sake. And he’s not some hormonal teenager who can’t control himself — he’s the damn  _ teacher _ . Having an erection because of one of his students. Why is he so disgusting?

A few seconds pass, and he realises he’s been holding his gaze for too long. He should tone it down, jeez. There’s nothing romantic between them, only sex and a still quite strange alliship. Nothing else. 

Some nights ago, he was pretty sure he was falling in love with her, but when the morning came so did clarity, and perhaps he was just being a tad too dramatic. Feelings don’t flourish overnight, and even if they did, she would never feel the same. It realistically wouldn’t happen, so why bothering? Why put his heart at risk? No matter if he really was starting to love her not, those feelings can’t go ahead. It wouldn’t end well. 

But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to fuck her senseless, to mark her so she knows she belongs to him, to hold her and to protect her. He’s a fucking mess. 

Minutes later, he dismisses the class. Dumbass Collins finally waves her goodbye, and he hates that his breathing got lighter for it. But he’s not done with her. 

“Ms. Griffin,” he calls her name as she descends the stairs. His stare is so casual, his tone so monotonous, nobody would suspect a thing, “I would like to see you in my office to discuss your final paper.”

Clarke isn’t fooled, “Right now, Mr. Blake?”

He swallows, grips the desk a little tighter. The urgency is killing him, “Now.”

She tugs at her lower lip unconsciously, bracing herself for what’s to come. Punishment, she hopes. The kind that she’ll feel for days. She appreciates that Bellamy is patient and careful with her, but damn. Sometimes she just wants his strong hands to hold her down while his cock tears her open mercilessly. And today is one of those days. 

When she enters the tiny cubicle that is his office, he’s right behind her. He closes the door after him, but he doesn’t lock it.

_ Good, he likes danger. _

“We aren’t here to discuss your final paper,” he states as he puts his backpack down on the floor. 

“No shit,” she smirks.

“We are here to discuss your behaviour in today’s class, Ms. Griffin.”

She rubs her legs together in advance, enjoying where this is going, “What did I do, Mr. Blake?”, she asks as innocently as she can, knowing that it drives him insane. He knows damn well she can kill a man with her bare hands, but this good girl side is what does it for him every time. She’s not complaining. 

He walks up to her, so calmly it looks like it’s in slow motion, until he’s pushed her lower back against his small desk. Bulky arms on both sides of her, and she’s trapped. His lips are pressed against the sensitive skin on her neck as he speaks, “You shouldn’t flirt during class, Ms. Griffin.”

She bites on her lower lip unconsciously, “I didn’t know you were watching me,” she lied. 

“I’m always watching you.”

She knows this, but hearing him say it makes things to her. His eyes burning on her skin during class weren’t easy to ignore, and she’s glad she used it to her advantage. It clearly worked. Bellamy’s hands travel from the desk to her waist, and grips at her with such possessiveness it would actually hurt if she wasn’t so goddamn horny. Now she just wants him to break her. 

“Naughty girls like you deserve punishment,” he groans, foreheads pressed together, and she can only imagine what burning thoughts are running through his mind. Nothing good, she hopes. 

Clarke tries to kiss him, needs desperately to feel his tongue on hers, but just as her lips brush his, he pulls away with a mischievous smirk, “Not yet,” he whispers, “I think you need to put your pretty little mouth at use somewhere else.”

_ Fuck _ . 

She can’t believe he’s suggesting this. It’s not that she’s not eager to try —quite the opposite really—, but he’s always so focused on giving  _ her _ pleasure that she’s surprised to see him so openly ready to receive. And she’s more than ready to leave him breathless. 

“What are you suggesting, Professor?”, she plays along innocently, hands travelling to the buckle of his belt, playing with it as she waits for a response. The bulge in his pants is already very tight, and she hasn’t even gotten started yet. 

He loves it when she teases him like this, so innocent yet so mischievous, just like her. She’s a bratty Princess, delicate like a spring flower and deadly like an atomic bomb. But she’s  _ his _ bratty Princess. He’s addicted, can’t get enough, and the need to protect her and make her feel safe almost makes him bad for blurting next, “You’re gonna get down on your knees and suck my cock. Understood?”

She presses her legs together, desperate for some friction, but even more desperate to take him in so deeply until it makes her gag. Obediently and slowly, she sinks to the floor until her face is at level with his crotch, and then he starts undoing his belt. She licks her lips, waiting, and watches with hungry eyes as he lowers his pants just the right amount, and his cock springs free. Thick, dark, long. Just how she likes it. 

Bellamy’s hand goes to the back of her head, caressing her hair softly before holding onto it firmly and guiding her carefully towards his length. As much as he wants to fuck her face shamelessly right now, she’s still his Princess. He needs to make this enjoyable for her as well. Clarke looks up at him, and he gives her a faint nod, signaling that he’s ready whenever she is. 

Her heart pounds vigorously as she wraps her hand around the base of his cock, testing the waters. She’s not new to how it looks, to how it feels, but seeing it like this feels very different. Somehow it feels even bigger, perhaps because she’s not very sure if it would actually fit inside her mouth. 

So she decides to take it easy. Taking his cock in her hand, she starts pumping it up and down a little, and watches as it quickly hardens even more in her grip. A drop of precum comes out the slit at the top, and she licks it off slowly with the tip of her tongue, teasing. Bellamy grunts in response, and tightens his grip on her hair. He reminds himself to be calm, to control himself and not shove his cock down her throat just yet. 

She sweeps some loose strands of hair away from her face, but Bellamy is quick to pull into a makeshift ponytail. She grins up at him —he’s so eager it’s making her own walls contract. God, she needs to touch herself so very badly. Giving him pleasure is turning her on more that she could’ve ever imagined. 

Slowly, she takes him in. She starts with the tip, giving herself time to get used to this new sensation, so overwhelmingly empowering, and she can tell Bellamy is already gone. His breathing changes, his grip becomes stronger, and she can tell he’s holding back.  _ Good _ . Her hand grabs the base of his cock, and she starts moving in a faster up-and-down movement as far as she can take him for now. 

“Good girl,” he manages to let out as he tries not to fall apart, “Just like that. Sucking my cock so well.”

She hums in response as she bobs her head up and down on him, faster as she grows more confident, and his words turn her on more than she’d like to admit. Bellamy calling her a ‘good girl’ is something else, so hot and so forbidden it makes her heart jump. She strokes him with her hand in sync with the movements of her head, breathing through her nose. The width of his cock is stretching her jaw in a way that should feel uncomfortable, but it doesn’t. In that moment she’s holding a kind of power that is making him fall apart, something so very rare, and it’s showing her a side of him she’s never experienced. 

So she looks up at him, wanting nothing more than to see the pleasure on his face.  _ She’s _ making him feel this way. His mouth is slightly open, eyes glued on her mouth around his cock. He already knows this is an imagine he would never manage to get out of his head. His hand is still guiding her movements at the back of her head, always so demanding, so possessive. But she wants him to come, wants to make him unravel like he’s done for her back at her apartment. She continues sucking him and pumping him up and down, adding a little twist to her grip that he seems to enjoy a bit too much. 

“ _ God _ , Clarke,” he groans, head thrown back in pleasure, “Fuck, baby. Your mouth feels so fucking good around my cock.  _ Shit _ .”

His dirty talk gets her going, just like it always does (Bellamy is thankfully never quiet in bed), and suddenly she desperately needed friction between her legs. His fingers, his cock,  _ something _ . She needs to be filled, stretched out until she screams from the pleasure and the pain. She’s never been so turned on by giving someone a blowjob, but there she is. Coming undone by sucking Bellamy Blake off. A man she’s one hundred percent sure she trusts with her life now.

She keeps it up for a few minutes until his breath grows more rapid, and it doesn’t take her by surprise when he says, “Clarke, baby. I’m gonna come”, almost as if it pains him that this moment is going to end, “Is that okay with you?”

She hums in response, because there’s truly nothing she  _ needs _ more than to feel his cum going down her throat, and so she starts sucking him faster and deeper. His cock twitches, and  _ fuck _ he’s close. She can feel his entire body stiffen with pleasure. He moans, a loud, guttural sound, and then she feels it. A pulse at the back of her throat, then a second, and a third. His fist on her hair is holding her head in place, and she can’t move. Her eyes widen as she feels him coming undone inside her mouth. He’s groaning, breathless, his cock is slowly softening inside her mouth, and when she’s sure he’s finished, she swallows his warmth. He tastes like nothing, even if a bit salty, and the mere realisation that she’s just done  _ this _ to him makes her head spin out of control. 

“Oh my god, okay,” he pants, and hurries to look down at her once he’s somewhat recovered, just as her lips unwrap from his cock. She gives his tip one last lick, getting every drop of his cum, “Fuck, Clarke. You didn’t have to swallow.”

“I wanted to,” she admits, a slight blush creeping up her cheeks. How can she look so fucking adorable after sucking him dry? Bellamy would never understand.

She gets up, her knees cracking with the effort, and she can’t help but smile at the sight of him. He has never looked so not-in-charge. It feels good to be the dominant one for a change, she thinks, although she suspects it’s not going to last. She’s more than okay with that, though.

He smirks, “My turn.”

Hands on her waist again, he spins her around on the desk until his crotch is pressed against her lower back, threatening to get hard again. He’s pretty sure the mere sight of her naked body will do the trick. His hands start roaming the skin on her stomach, under her shirt, and she’s so pale and so soft he wants nothing more than to mark her. Everyone will know she belongs to him, and only him. 

His fingers threaten to travel under the waist of her jeans when a piercing sound makes them jump at once.

Her phone is ringing. 

She groans, and detaches herself from the warmth of his arms. When she sees the caller ID, her heart starts racing. 

“Clarke,” the leader of Eligius sounds agitated as she speaks. This can’t be good, “It’s Pike. I’m sending a car right now.”

  
  


* * *

She doesn’t know what she was expecting, but certainly not  _ this _ . 

A man she can only guess is Charles Pike sits tied up in the middle of Eligius Headquarters, some kind of cloth shoved into his mouth to prevent him from screaming. Not as if anyone would hear him down here, in the middle of nowhere. 

She doesn’t know how Diyoza has managed to get him here in the first place, but she’s not going to ask. The job is done, and they have a more important task ahead. The less she knows, the better — she’s learnt this the hard way. Bellamy stiffens behind her, gun gripped tightly, and waits for instructions. If this Pike guy even dares to move in her direction, he’ll shoot him in the head. He doesn’t care. He’ll pull as many triggers as he needs to keep her safe and sound. 

Clarke looks over at Diyoza, who stands unusually quiet next to Indra, and she silently instructs her to go for it. And so she does. 

Hesitantly, she removes the piece of cloth from his mouth, making him groan in response. His eyes pierce into hers for a moment, before he turns his head and spits out in the ground. It’s blood. 

“I guess you won,” he mutters, and when she looks in his eyes she knows he would kill her right now if he had the chance. That was the plan after all. 

But not anymore. 

“I just want to know why,” she lets out, voice breaking. It doesn’t matter now. She can allow herself to show weakness when the end of the tunnel is right there. Just like he said, they won. 

Pike shakes his head in amusement, a sudden smirk creeping up his face. Bellamy wants to punch him for it, and if it wasn’t for Indra’s warning gaze, he would. 

“Ah, sweet girl,” he tightens the grip on his gun as Pike speaks. One more stupid word and he’s done for, “I’m not opening my mouth. I’ll take this secret to the grave.”

“No, you won’t.”

A new voice breaks into the room, startling her, and the last person Clarke was expecting to see emerges from the shadows. It’s Echo. What the hell is she doing here?

“Traitor,” Pike spits out, scanning every inch of her, almost as if he couldn’t believe she's in front of him for real. 

Echo’s expression doesn’t change as she tosses some files Clarke can’t recognise across the room, and they land at Pike’s feet. Now she can take a closer look — they’re photographs. She watches as the man’s face changes until his smug smirk has turned into a face of raw horror, and she frowns. Could it be that…?

“Where did you get these?”, he shouts, fighting to release himself from the tight grip of the ropes, but it’s useless. He’s trapped, and Diyoza will make sure he doesn’t go anywhere. 

Echo ignores him, “Tell us what we want to hear,” she states, “And nothing will happen to your wife.”

Clarke’s eyes widen in horror at the realisation. Her mind clicks. In front of her, a woman she assumes is Pike’s wife is seen in the photographs — at the supermarket, in front of their house, leaving church. Her pulse accelerates, and she doesn’t know how to feel about this. Trikru, perhaps Eligius too, has been following this innocent woman’s every move, and now her life is at risk because of her. 

_ No _ , a little voice in her head says,  _ because of him _ . 

“You fucking bitch,” Pike mutters at the spy, but he knows his words have no effect on her, and that’s making his blood boil even more. 

Echo ignores him again and turns to Clarke, “Ask him again.”

She hesitates, and tries not to think about the consequences of him staying quiet. An innocent woman could die today because of this. She forces her brain to shut down, and asks, “Who hired you to kill me?”

But Pike stays quiet. 

Echo walks up to him, iPad in hand, and shows him a screen, “I have four agents hidden around your house right now. Answer to her and nothing will happen to your family.”

Pike’s giving in, she can feel it. This feels too real, and she knows not even an evil man like him would let anything happen to his loved ones, “I’ll ask again,” Clarke takes one step closer, and gets ready to accept the truth, “Who hired you to kill me?”

Pike’s eyes travel from the screen to the photographs, then at Clarke. It’s easy to tell he doesn’t want to speak, but at the same time he  _ has _ to. However, Clarke isn’t ready to hear it. 

She would never be, not really, because when the name, when  _ that _ name rolls off his tongue, her world ends forever. 

“Marcus Kane.”

Her brain is blank, almost as if the words hadn’t really come through. 

She can no longer feel her heart beating, or any sounds around the room for that matter. She’s standing still, eyes locked with Pike’s, and she can’t move. 

Marcus Kane. Her mother’s boyfriend. 

He wants her dead. 

It isn’t until she feels Bellamy’s strong hand on her shoulder that she wakes up. All her senses come back at the same time, and it’s so overwhelming she just can’t take it. So she yanks herself away from Bellamy’s grip, and runs. 

Her legs carry her somewhere, but her brain isn’t following. The only thing she feels is pure and raw nausea, and everything is black until she finds herself kneeled down by the toilet, and she throws up. Disgust, pain, remorse, all come out of her in the unclassiest way possible, and suddenly she’s in a cold sweat. 

She feels someone pulling her hair back in a ponytail as she keeps throwing up, a big hand rubbing circles on her back that she immediately recognises, “Shh, you’re okay, love. I’m here,” Bellamy’s voice rings inside her mind, but she can’t focus on it. 

She keeps throwing up for a couple more minutes, until she’s pretty sure there’s nothing left inside of her anymore. So she sits back, takes some toilet paper Bellamy offers her and wipes her mouth with it before flushing the toilet. She can’t believe he isn’t completely grossed out by this scene. 

When she’s done, she sits on the cold tiled floor, unable to move, unable to feel. Bellamy holds a plastic cup of water to her lips, and forces her to drink. So she does, because she doesn’t have the energy to fight back. It’s over for her. After all she’s pushed through, she’s truly done for. 

His fingers run through her loose curls, soothing her just a bit. She’s thankful for the gesture, but nothing will ever shake this off her. After a few moments of complete silence, he speaks, “Do you know Marcus Kane?”

She shivers at his name. This can’t be real. It feels like a fucking fever dream, and she starts shaking, “Hey,” Bellamy is quick to sit next to her, back pressed against one of the walls as he wraps his arms around her trembling form, and pulls her back against his chest, “You’re safe here, Clarke. I’ll take care of you, alright? Nothing bad will ever happen to you as long as I’m here, I need you to understand that. You’re strong, and I’m here for you.”

She knows that, but it doesn’t change the fact that, “My mother’s boyfriend wants me dead.”

And then it clicks in his mind.  _ Fuck _ . 

This is far more severe than he could’ve ever imagined. What possible reason could that asshole have to want his stepdaughter dead? Does Clarke’s Mom know? He feels boiling anger creeping up from his core, and now he’s ready to kill someone himself. 

He tightens his hold on her, doesn’t ever want to let go, “We’ll figure it out. Together. Do you trust me, Princess?”

She nods, but she’s barely listening. 

Her eyes feel too heavy, her head is pounding like a war drum, and she can’t feel anything except for an agonising emptiness and Bellamy’s arms around her. 

And just like that, she’s certain she’s just died inside. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: smut, explicit mentions of vomiting.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can’t believe I’m typing this, but this is actually the last *real* chapter of this story, as chapter 11 is essentially an epilogue 😢 I’m not ready!
> 
> I hope this one lives up to your expectations! I don’t think this is the ending most of you had in mind, but again, I don’t know what ending you had in mind in the first place 😂 Ok ok I’ll shut up now and let you read!
> 
> Don’t forget to leave a comment telling me what you thought about the story 🥺
> 
> Warnings at the end.
> 
> Happy reading! 💙

Nothing. 

That’s what her heart feels as she lays awake in Bellamy’s bed, waiting for him to get out of the shower. She doesn’t know if he’s been gone for two minutes or two hours — she can’t even tell the passing of time anymore. 

He insisted that she shouldn’t go back to her apartment today, that she needed a change of setting. So she’s laying on her back now, eyes peeping at the Marvel poster above his bed, as she continues to feel nothing at all inside. This is her now, a deep black hole of nothingness and numbness. It’s okay. She deserves it.

She’s pretty sure she’s broken. After having found out that her mother’s boyfriend wants to kill her, she’s pretty sure she should at least have some kind of reaction. Disgust, anger, fear, shock, sadness. Something, right? 

But there is a silence to her soul instead, coldness. Part of it is pain, yet one she thinks she can endure, one she can sleep through night after night without the anaesthesia of false hope. This is her life. A lie. A series of fatal events that led her to growing into an adult without the love of a father, under the watch of a mother who didn’t care and who has a boyfriend that wants her head on a plate. When she looks at it now, she sees it clearly: there’s no fairytale waiting for her at the end of this. There never was, that has never been the plan of the universe. Not for her. Only sorrow, and pain, and karma for having joined Eligius and having done all those terrible things are in her future. Yeah, she deserves it. 

When Bellamy finally gets out of the shower, he doesn’t say anything as he sits next to her on the bed, and grabs her hand. It engulfs hers completely, feels so small and fragile under his touch. He’s this big, broad man and she’s this tiny little thing, and she’s always enjoyed the disparities of their physical appearances, found them arousing even, but now it does nothing to her. Nothing does anything to her anymore. 

His fingers, so long and thick, capable of inflicting both pain and pleasure, brush her now weak ones, and she can’t look away. He’s mesmerising, and she doesn’t deserve him. She doesn’t deserve anything that makes her happy. 

“You need to eat,” he mutters, but she isn’t feeling hungry. So she tells him, “You need to eat anyway,” he responds, and she just shrugs. 

Bellamy looks at her carefully. She doesn’t look like his usual Clarke, so full of life, snarky and ready to snap, but he can’t blame her for it. He wishes he could take her pain away and inject himself with it instead, make her feel the love she deserves, but she’s shut everything down and he can’t get in anymore. 

But he’s determined to try anyway. 

And so he shifts his position so that he’s sitting in front of her now, and takes both of her hands in his, squeezing them, “Clarke,” he starts, but she doesn’t look up to meet this gaze, “Listen to me, Princess,” he hesitates before continuing, before saying something he’ll forever regret. Something she isn’t ready to hear. But fuck it. 

“I care about you, Clarke. A lot. More than I’ve ever cared about anyone else that wasn’t family. I need you to be alright, and I’d do anything to make it happen,” his voice is low with shyness, and she meets his gaze, curious and heart beating fast, “You deserve a happy ending more than anyone else I know. We’ve both made questionable choices, but that’s not who we really are. You told me that, and I know it too now.”

“What I’m trying to say is that I’d give my life for you, Clarke. I would…,” he sighs, and feels his hands shake as he says the next words, “Just say the word and Marcus Kane is dead.”

She blinks, “You’re not serious.”

“I am,” he swallows, because even if the mere thought of taking another life doesn’t thrill him at all, he knows it’ll keep her safe. And that’s all that matters to him. 

Clarke shakes her head vigorously, “Bellamy, you’ve already done more than enough for me. I don’t want you to have any more blood on your hands,” she remembers why he doesn’t kill in the first place, his mother, and she can’t do that to him. They have done enough, both of them.

“I’m willing to do this,” he insists, “You’re still in danger, Clarke. Pike might have been neutralised, but what if Kane hires somebody else? I can’t let you have a target on your back for the rest of your life. I won’t let that happen.”

She wants to ask him why he cares so deeply, when these feelings flourished for the first time. Because she cares about him too, more than she’d ever admit to herself, and it’s scary. If he feels even half of what she feels for him, she wouldn’t know how to react. She’s never been cared for like this, and it feels foreign. 

“You’re not killing anyone else,” she concludes firmly. If she has a say in this, then he’ll never have blood on his hands ever again, “I must find another way.”

“ _ We _ must find another way,” he corrects her, and suddenly she feels him squeezing her hands again. She’s not alone, for the first time, “I’ll go to the end of the world for you, Clarke.”

Her heart stops. 

“Well,” she squeezes back, “I need you to come to the end of the world  _ with _ me. Can you do that?”, he instantly nods, “Good. Then let’s go.”

And just like that, the old Clarke is back. Almost as if someone had pushed a button inside of her, she gets up from his bed, stare firm and determined, and goes to grab her jacket. 

He frowns, “Let’s go where?”

“To the end of the world,” she straightens her jacket and puts her shoes on. She doesn’t look back at him as she says, “Let’s pay Marcus and my Mom a visit.”

* * *

Bellamy’s never been to Arkadia. Not as a tourist, anyway. He never thought of this small town as an interesting destination, not more than Polis had to offer. So why would he bother? 

He’s following her directions as he drives. She’s nervous, that much is evident. Uncomfortable, even. She hasn’t seen her mother in like what, two years? And he doubts she’s ready to confront her now, but it was her idea, and just like he told her, he’ll go to the end of the world with her. 

This is it, apparently. 

A tall house of white bricks stands imposing in front of his parked car, and even from outside he’s able to understand why Clarke never comes here. It looks cold, unwelcoming. She says nothing as she gets out of the vehicle, because there’s nothing she could say right now that would ease all this tension. What she’s about to do might just be the biggest mistake of her life. It might cost her everything.

He follows her to the front door, just a few steps behind, watching her back. It just hit him that he’s going to come face to face with the mind behind this scheme, with the man who wants Clarke dead, and he’s embarrassed to think that he’s not much more different than he is. In fact, if it wasn’t for Marcus Kane, he’d probably be dead. He knows it now — Clarke would’ve killed him, because he would’ve never dared to kill her. They would’ve never made this alliance, and he would’ve never known what love is.   
  


In a way, Marcus Kane is the reason he’s alive.

She surprises him by ringing the doorbell, just like a normal daughter visiting her family would do. For some reason, he was expecting her to burst in unannounced, kick the door down even. Whatever she chooses to do, he’ll be right behind her. 

Soon enough, they hear footsteps on the other side the door, and a couple of seconds later, a woman is in front of them. 

“Clarke?”

She tries not to fall apart, “Mom.”

Bellamy’s stare is firm on the woman. She looks a bit like Clarke if he squints, but her hair is darker and her complexion stiffer. She looks like a serious woman, definitely a politician. 

“Is Marcus home?”, she asks, straight to the point. 

Abby blinks in surprise, “He's just got back. Do you want to see him?”

“May we come in?”, she ignores her, staring right ahead. The woman eventually opens the door further, steps aside, and lets them in. 

Just like Bellamy had imagined, the interior of the house resembles more a museum than an actual home. Abstract paintings on the walls, fancy statues and vases displayed in the hallway, not a single family portrait in sight. Not a single photograph of Clarke, her own daughter. 

The woman has barely looked at him, probably being too shocked to find her daughter at her doorstep after so many years without communication. But he knows she has many questions, none of which Clarke is planning to answer today. He follows her towards one of the living rooms, where her mother tells them to get comfortable while she goes to get Marcus. The white big couch looks straight out of the shop, and he wonders if they have ever sat down on it. Probably not. 

Clarke doesn’t sit down either, and instead crosses her arms over her chest and paces nervously around the room. She still hasn’t said a thing to him. 

“Hey,” he whispers in her direction, “You’re okay. I’m right here, alright?”

She nods, but can’t say anything else because her mother walks back into the living room just then. 

Marcus Kane is trailing right behind her. 

“Clarke,” he fakes a smile when he spots her, hands on his pockets so casually Bellamy wants to punch him for it. His blood is boiling, “What brings you here?”

Then he looks at him, and his politician manners seem to kick right in all of a sudden, because he immediately walks up to him to shake his hand, “Marcus Kane. Nice to meet you.”

He doesn’t know what to do, so he goes for the less awkward move. He’s extending his own hand to shake his, and it all moves in slow motion as Clarke’s firm voice echoes through the room, “Don’t.”

His heart stops. Marcus looks at him for a second before turning his attention to her, “Everything okay, Clarke?”

Not really, in fact. She’s had enough. She’s had enough of pretending that this stupid family still cares about her, because it’s pretty obvious that they don’t. But it is one thing not to speak to your daughter again, and it is something else to want her  _ dead _ . 

Her tone is a warning, “You tell me, Marcus.”

“ _ Clarke _ ,” her mother hisses, “What on Earth is wrong with you?”

Bellamy doesn’t know, but she’s brought a gun with her today and it’s burning against her skin. She stares at Marcus with hard, accusing eyes, and she still can’t believe his audacity. Does her mother even know all of this? 

The more she looks at him, the more she wants to blow his brains out, so she does. Almost does. In a swift movement, she takes her gun out of her waistband and points it at him. Abby lets out a high-pitched scream and Bellamy steps back, completely shocked by her reaction. Marcus simply puts his hands up in surrender, but if he’s scared he doesn’t show it. 

“What the hell are you doing, Clarke?!”, her mother shouts, tears threatening to spill from her eyes. 

Her daughter ignores her, “Tell me why,” she demands between gritted teeth, “Why the fuck did you hire him to kill me, Marcus? Did you seriously think I would never find out?”

Marcus simply stares ahead at Clarke, mouth shut in a thin line. Bellamy can’t believe the scene unfolding in front of his very eyes. He’s carrying a gun himself too, of course he is, but he promised himself he’ll only use it if it gets ugly. Which is about to happen, he fears. 

Hands still up in the air, he takes a step forward, and Clarke tightens her grip on the gun, “Don’t you dare come any closer.”

“Okay,” he speaks then, carefully.

She swallows, “I asked you a question.”

Then, the man turns his head to look at Bellamy. He stiffens, and gets ready to grab his weapon. This is only getting weirder by the minute, and only worsens when he speaks again, “I didn’t expect to see you here, Mr. Blake.”

His heart skips a beat, “How do you know my name?”

Marcus smirks, “Why wouldn’t I know the name of the best hitman in Polis?”, he knows he’s just caught them off guard, and he’s clearly amused by it, “Did you have fun at the party the other day? I didn’t know you were so close to my daughter.”

“I’m not your daughter,” Clarke mid-shouts, and fires her gun at some glass statue at the end of the living room, making it explode into a million pieces. Abby screams, “Why the fuck did you want me dead?”, she’s full on shouting now, and she feels like she’s in some kind of stupid hidden camera situation. This can’t be happening. She then directs her attention back to her mother, “Did you know any of this?”

Marcus makes a small signal with his hand, silently telling her to stay quiet, and so she does. He looks back at Clarke, “You’re not as discreet as you think you are, Clarke,” he speaks then, voice daring, like he knows he’s caught them red handed, “I knew from day one that you had joined Eligius to investigate your mother’s case, and I couldn’t let that happen.”

She swallows, “You’re the reason why my Dad is in jail,” she tries not to shake as she talks about him, “I did what I had to do.”

“But we couldn’t let that happen,” he insists, and Clarke has had enough. 

She turns the gun to her mother, who immediately stiffens, “Mom, you…”, she starts, but she can’t find the words, “I know you don’t love me, and that’s okay, because I don’t love you either. Don’t pretend it’s otherwise. But seriously? K-Killing your own daughter?”

She can’t even say it. What kind of fucked up reality is she living in?

Abby shakes her head, and Bellamy notices that her whole body is shaking too, “We didn’t want to kill you, sweetheart. It was never the plan.”

“Tell that to this sick fuck!”, tears are threatening to spill down her cheeks, but she’s determined not to show weakness. Not in front of them. 

“We…,” she starts again, thick tears already falling from her eyes. Clarke doesn’t feel sympathy, “We just wanted to scare you away, make you quit the business. We never wanted to kill you, Clarke!”

“Yes, you did,” she’s breathing heavily, adrenaline running high, “I had two men after my head, you knew that? You’re murderers, both of you!,” she turns back to Marcus, voice agitated, “What changed? What made you want me dead?” 

Marcus doesn’t hesitate, “You were a danger to our careers and to our reputations,” he confesses, “I instructed Pike to stop you, whatever it took. Your mother didn’t have a say in it.”

“She’s just as sick as you are,” her hands are trembling now, but she can’t do anything about it. She can’t hide anymore, “You both are going to rot in jail.”

“No, we are not,” Marcus states, and she’s had enough. 

Before she can pull the trigger, a strong hand is grabbing her wrist firmly until it stings. Bellamy, “Don’t do this,” he tells her, voice calm, “You’re better than this.”

She looks at him, and for a second she wants to punch him for this. But he’s right, deep down she knows it. Pulling the trigger now won’t solve any of her problems. So she turns back to Marcus, but keeps her gun pointed at him, “Your days are numbered, Kane.”

“I don’t think so,” he speaks, “You have no way of proving we’ve committed any kind of fraud. You can’t reopen a case that has been closed for two years, but I do have proof of both of you involved in quite the criminal acts.”

“You’re full of shit.”

“You don’t want to find out,” his stare is hard on her, “Drop this, Clarke. Just quit, both of you. Stop trying to save the world, and I will stop chasing you.”

She turns to her mother, tears running down her own cheeks now. She can’t believe this, “Are you seriously going to let him kill me?”

“Nothing will happen to you if you just stop,” she tells her, her whole body shaking along with her voice, “I can’t go to jail, Clarke.”

She launches herself at her mother, for what she doesn’t know. She wants to punch her, hurt her, make her feel the pain she made her carry for so long. But Bellamy is quick to hold her back. 

“We’re leaving, Princess,” he mutters, “There’s nothing left to do here.”

“Just quit it, both of you!”, Marcus shouts as they leave the house. Clarke resists the urge to turn around and finish what she started, “Give it up. This will only make things worse for you.”

Once they’re outside, the cold winter air hits her right on the face, making her shiver. She lost. Hope. Her last chance. Her father. Everything.

Bellamy looks at her, and says nothing as he starts the car.

* * *

Eligius Headquarters feel different that day. 

The atmosphere around her has changed drastically, and the place she once felt the most at home in is merely a box of four cold walls now. She doesn’t belong here anymore. But this is all she knows, so where does she belong now? 

She updates Diyoza on what she’s just done, or more like, Bellamy updates her while she sits on the empty chair Pike was sitting on just a few hours ago. He’s nowhere to be found, and she suspects the worst. Indra is there too, and her eyes never leave her as Bellamy explains what happened. Perhaps she’s feeling sorry for her. She feels sorry for herself, too.

Her chest is a deep hole of nothingness, and she can’t feel her heart beating. She has two options now: keep going after Marcus and her Mom and risk getting killed, or quit like she was planning to and abandon all possibilities of getting her father out of jail. Her head hurts. 

Bellamy is whispering something to Diyoza now, and she sees the woman nod. Clarke raises a questioning eyebrow. What’s this all about? Then they both turn to her next, and Indra signals for Echo to walk up to them. Raven is right behind her. 

She frowns, “What the hell is going on here?”

Bellamy kneels in front of her, and takes her hands on his. She almost blushes at the gesture — since when is he so openly caring with her in front of other people?

“We did something,” he says then, like a confession, which only grows her confusion even worse. His voice sounds nervous. Her head starts spinning, and she can’t even ask for an explanation. So she squeezes his hand, and he understands, “Diyoza.”

The Eligius leader takes over, “We didn’t tell you because we didn’t know if it was going to work, and we didn’t want to disappoint you if it didn’t,” she explains, but she still doesn’t understand a thing.

“What is it?”, her heart is beating so fast she’s sure it’s about to explode inside her chest. Her palms are sweaty, her legs are shaking. 

Diyoza speaks again, “Bellamy came to me a few days ago with some information I didn’t know,” she says, “Your mother is Abigail Griffin, the Senator.”

She hasn’t mentioned this to her? It isn’t something she’s proud to admit, but for some reason she thought Diyoza knew everything about her. 

“A fraudulent one, apparently,” Clarke looks at Bellamy, who’s torn between feeling guilty for having told Diyoza a secret that doesn’t belong to him, and something else, “And she’s dating Marcus Kane, the man who wanted you dead, according to Pike.”

Then, she remembers, “Where’s Charles Pike?”

“He’ll never bother us again,” she brushes it off, and goes back to her explanation, “Clarke, do you remember the night I assigned you to kill Bellamy? The key you brought me?”

She remembers vividly. 

_ Clarke raises a questioning eyebrow, “What did he want the key for, anyway? You can only use it down here.” _

_ “Wrong,” a quick gust of cold air hits her cheeks momentarily as Diyoza opens the glass door, “It’s for my files back at the Council. We’d be in serious trouble if anyone got their hands on them.” _

She remembers how she didn’t want to ask what all of that was about, but she has a feeling she’s about to find out now. 

“In my files at the Council, Clarke,” her eyes are firm on her. She can hear her own heartbeat pounding rapidly inside her ears, “I’ve got proof against Abigail Griffin and Marcus Kane that supports the claim that they committed fiscal fraud after being elected, as well as bribery to the tribunal that locked your father in jail because of it.”

She can’t even articulate any words right now. Her whole world has stopped around her, and she can’t feel Bellamy’s hands on hers. Almost as if someone had pushed her, she stands up, agitated. 

“Clarke,” Bellamy is right by her side in a second. 

“What the hell is going on?”, she pants, because it’s getting harder to control her breathing now. 

“Hey, hey, Clarke,” Diyoza puts her hand over her shoulder, her firm voice making her come back down to Earth, “Clam down. This is good news, alright? Want to hear the rest?”

“There’s  _ more _ ?”

It’s Raven’s turn to smirk now, “Our dear man Bellamy here thought it wouldn’t be that easy, and he wasn’t wrong,” Clarke frowns. Bellamy?, “He warned us about a possible blackmail.”

She turns to him now, “But you didn’t know who Marcus was,” she points out, “You didn’t know that he wanted to kill me.”

“That’s true, I didn’t,” he admits, “But I was planning on getting those files for you anyway. So we could get your father out of jail. I guess I just hit two birds with one stone.”

She has to prevent her jaw from dropping, “You were working behind my back to get my Dad out of jail?”, voice weak, she can’t believe he’s real right now. 

Bellamy just shrugs, and feels his cheeks getting hotter, “Seemed like he was innocent when you told me about it, and a little investigation proved you were right.”

She wants to cry. What did she even do to deserve this man? Because she doesn’t. She doesn’t deserve anything good happening in her life, not after everything she’s done, all the blood on her hands. 

But all hopes shatter when she remembers Marcus’ words, “He said he’s got proof to incriminate us, Bellamy,” she shakes her head, and is firm as she speaks, “I’m not going to let anything bad happen to you because of me.”

“Now, before we get all sappy over here,” Raven rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling, “Everybody say ‘Thank you, Echo, thank you for saving our asses once again’”.

Clarke doesn’t understand. She looks at the ex Azgeda spy, “What is she talking about?”

Echo looks pissed at Raven, but again, she always looks pissed, so this is nothing new. She clears her throat, “When Pike mentioned Marcus Kane, it rang a bell. It took me second, but I finally remembered — he’s been friends with Pike for longer than I can remember. He’s always supported Azgeda on the low. Like, financially. He never visited the Headquarters in person, obviously, but both Pike and Roan talked about him all the time. It wasn’t much of a secret.”

Clarke can’t believe how blind she’s been. The spy continues, “I could tell this was going to get ugly, so I went ahead and paid him a visit earlier today. Well, to his computer anyways.”

“We used the same system you guys used at Azgeda’s Headquarters,” Raven informs her next, “We hacked his network and, sure enough, found all the proof Bellamy was talking about.”

“He had pictures and videos of both of you at several crime scenes, dating back almost a year ago,” Echo says, “Raven deleted them all. They’re not accessible anymore.”

“Are you completely sure?”, Clarke arches an skeptic eyebrow. 

“When have I ever  _ not _ outdone myself, blondie?”, Raven crosses her arms defensively, but she’s smirking. 

She can’t believe this is reality. Her mind is suddenly clear, the clouds are gone, and she doesn’t know how to act. Her heart is beating so fast it might fly away, and she wants nothing more than to launch herself at Bellamy’s arms and stay right there. Forever. She can’t believe she’s finally safe.   
  


They have proof against Marcus and her Mom. Kane’s files on Bellamy and her don’t exist anymore. She’s going to get her father out of jail.

“So, what’s our next move?”, she asks, unable to believe that this might be it. She can almost touch her freedom with her fingertips. 

Diyoza smirks, “We sit back, and wait.”

“We’ve sent an anonymous message to the authorities,” Bellamy tells her, a shy smile on his lips, “With Marcus and your mother’s files, and all the proof that Jake Griffin is innocent. There’s no proof against us anymore. It’s over.”

_ It’s over. _

His words ring inside her ears until she can no longer hear anything else. 

_ All the proof that Jake Griffin is innocent. _

Is this… is this real life?

“I just…,” she starts, but then her hands start shaking, and she can feel a lump forming in her throat, “Why? Why are you helping me?”

Her question is aimed at everyone and nobody at the same time, because deep down she still can’t believe this fucking nightmare is over. 

Diyoza speaks first, “Because we love you, Clarke,” she smiles, maybe for the first time in very long, “You’re like a daughter to me, and you deserve this. You deserve justice. This is why you joined Eligius, isn’t it? To avenge your father and set him free someday. Well, sweetheart, you’ve done it. It’s all done.”

She can feel her throat closing with raw emotion. She gets why Diyoza wanted to help her — she’s like the mother she’s lost, the only person that really cared about her until Bellamy came along. She also understands why Raven took part in this, even Bellamy, but…

“Echo?”, she looks up at the spy, “Why did you help me?”

The woman hesitates, almost as if she’s scared of her words, to show vulnerability and compassion. But she eventually gives in, “Bellamy is my friend, and I wanted to help him,” she starts, but she knows it’s not all the truth, “I also know how Azgeda operates. They’re not like Eligius and Trikru. They are…,” she stares off at the distance, but never finishes her sentence, “And I’m all about serving justice when it comes to shitty parents.”

Clarke smiles up at her, and the woman actually smiles back. It’s small and shy, but it’s there. For the first time in her life, she feels welcomed. She feels love, she feels friendship, and she feels like she belongs. Perhaps for all the wrong reasons, but the sun is shining in her sky right now. 

Then, she turns back and looks at Bellamy. 

God, that man. What would she do without him? 

“Can I talk to you for a second?”, she asks him, voice small, “In private.”

He nods, and follows her inside one of the empty workshops. When she locks the door behind her, she can’t hold herself together any longer. A river of tears starts spilling out of her red, puffy eyes, and he quickly wraps his arms around her. 

“Hey, Princess,” he whispers softly into her hair as he rocks her side to side, “Everything’s okay, why the sad tears?”

He feels her shake her head against his chest, “They’re not sad tears,” she sniffles, and detaches herself from his arms just enough to look at him. He takes this opportunity to carefully brush away her tears, “Bellamy, I… I can’t thank you enough for this.”

“I don’t want a thank you,” he reassures her, his hand now cupping her wet cheek. He smiles down at her, “I wanted you to start new, that’s all. This new world is yours, Clarke. You’ll get to be with your father again. You’ll get to be whoever you want to be, do whatever you want to do.”

The thought grips at her heart and makes it softer, fuller. It’s been too long since she last saw her father’s smile, since she heard his contagious laugh. And now she’s going to do it all again, because of Bellamy.    
  


He’s given her another chance.

The man she once wanted to kill, so very long ago. 

“What about you?”, she asks him, perhaps not ready to know the answer. 

“Don’t worry about that, Princess,” his thumb brushes off another tear, “I still get to pester you in class, remember?”

She chuckles, because in the midst of all this chaos, she actually forgot that Bellamy is her TA. It wasn’t a fever dream after all, apparently, “I still haven’t started working on your final assignment,” she chuckles, and smiles up at him. Just like that, the tension is completely gone, and so are the heavy hearts. 

His eyes have never looked at her more softly than now, piercing into her soul until all he can see is  _ her _ . Her true form, and he…

He’s in love. He’s pretty fucking certain now. He’s sure he’s been for a while, and he was just trying to protect his heart. But now there’s no need for that anymore. She’s had it for days, for weeks, and she’s only healed it. He’s better when he’s with her. 

“Don’t worry. We can work on it together,” he reassures her, and she nods happily against his hand. 

“Bell,” she whispers.

“Yes, Princess?”

Her heart stops as she asks, “Can I kiss you?”

He doesn’t have to say yes. His eyes speak for him now, and she can read them like a book. So he leans in until her soft lips are pressed against his own, and suddenly he doesn’t want to let go. 

He’s never going to. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: explicit mentions of guns.


	11. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can’t believe I’m typing this right now, but Blind Trust is officially a completed fic!!
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who has supported me and this story from day 1 — I certainly never expected to get such amazing feedback, and it was very uplifting 🥺
> 
> Just one warning for this chapter: wholesomeness.
> 
> Happy reading! 💙

Abigail Griffin and Marcus Kane are arrested two hours after Diyoza’s anonymous message.

The whole thing causes a mediatic chaos, and it’s broadcasted in every channel nationwide. They make headlines, they trend on social media, and it’s essentially everything Arkadia and Polis talk about for the following months. Clarke watches hell break loose from the comfort of Bellamy’s home. 

The trial happens soon after that, and they are found guilty of fiscal fraud, bribery, and something else she didn’t even bother to remember. Justice was served, and that’s what matters. Who cares about specifics, when those two are going to rot in jail like she told them they would? 

For the next few days, it all happens so quickly it merges into a happy blur. Jake Griffin is released from jail, and of course he has a flock of paparazzi following him on his way out. This is  _ big _ news after all. She would feel bad for him, as she remembers how little he liked the attention when she went with Abby to public events, but this isn’t a time for pity. This is probably the best day of her life. 

Diyoza sends a car for him, and it takes him straight to Bellamy’s apartment. As she waits for him to ring the doorbell, she has to wipe away the tears several times. She can’t seem to step away from the front door, and she actually forgets that she isn’t alone until she feels a strong grip on her shoulders. 

Bellamy shakes them playfully, “I would ask you if you’re excited, but I don’t want you to punch me for saying the obvious,” he smirks, heart jumping as she leans back against his chest. He wraps his arms around her protectively. There’s no more danger now, but he still likes to feel that she’s safe with him.

“I can’t believe this is really happening,” she mutters, a lazy smile on her face, “He’s really coming back home.”

He hums in response, “You know he can stay here until he finds a place,” he repeats for maybe the tenth time that morning, so she just rolls her eyes, “I know you don’t want him to see the crap hole you live in.”

She smacks him playfully for it, but deep down she knows it’s true. The neighbourhood she lives in is questionable, and her little one bedroom apartment would never get her father’s approval. Just last week she spotted a couple of roaches under her sink. She’s embarrassed about all of it, if she’s being quite honest. The less her father knows about her old place, her old life, the better, “Told you I was trying to find a new apartment.”

“But instead you’re taking over mine,” he smirks, and she sticks her tongue out at him, turning her head slightly so he can see her annoyance. He just laughs. 

“Don’t act like you don’t love it.”

That, he can’t deny. Ever since that day at Eligius Headquarters, she’s never stepped foot in her now old apartment again. What for? She grabbed a few clothes and a toothbrush that night, but other than that, her new home is now with him. And he’s not complaining. 

They stay like that, wrapped in each other’s warm arms, until five minutes later the doorbell finally rings.

Clarke feels her heart stopping. She can’t even feel her own feet right now, her whole body shaking with emotion and anticipation, so Bellamy opens the door for her. 

On the other side, Jake Griffin.

His hair is a bit more grey than she remembers, and the bags under his bright blue eyes silently give away the number of sleepless nights he’s had to endure. She can only imagine the constant pain, the loneliness, the helplessness — but not anymore. He’s free, and he’s with her again. 

But his smile remains the same, big and bright and welcoming, and she can’t stop the tears from falling as she launches herself at him, inside his embrace. This. This is home. 

“My little girl,” Jake feels his own eyes getting wet as his arms hold his daughter as tight as he manages, not ever wanting to let go, “I’ve missed you so much, Clarke. So, so much.”

Her hand wraps around his shirt, clinging to him. It smells like she remembered, “I’ve missed you too, Dad,” she sobs, “But you’re here now. You’re not going anywhere.”

“I’m not,” he kisses the top of her head like he used to do. Like he will do again from now on, “It’s all okay. I’m okay.”

She knows he’s not, but they’ll have enough time to talk about that. Right now, she doesn’t want to bring up the bad, the ugly, the nightmares. Her father is here, he’s safe and he’s here, and that’s all it takes for her heart to feel full again. 

She’s back to being the person she used to be before her mother became a politician, when they were a normal, happy family. No — she’s even better now. This is a new version of her that’s happier, wiser, and even though she’s done terrible things in the past, she wants to allow herself to grow from it. She wants to forgive herself for everything. 

How much time it will take her to fully heal, she doesn’t know. She’s done and seen too much, and her past is something she’ll never be completely free from. But that’s alright with her, because her choices, no matter how questionable, are what shaped her into this new Clarke she’s in love with. And she’s willing to wait for her soul to heal, no matter how long it takes. She deserves a brand new begging. 

When they pull away, she notices Bellamy has been standing there the whole time, smiling shyly. Jake notices him too, and is quick to shake his hand, “Jake Griffin. Nice to meet you, son,” he smiles, and suddenly he feels a kind of warmth inside he now realises he’s missed so badly. The warmth of a father, the warmth of a man who cares for his family. This is exactly who Clarke deserves to have by her side. 

“Bellamy Blake,” he nods as he shakes his hand. He smiles right back, “I’m Clarke’s—”

“Boyfriend,” she’s quick to interrupt, under the shocked gaze of both men. She smiles unapologetically at them. 

It’s not like they’ve talked about the current status of their relationship, not really. Between Abby and Marcus’ incarceration, school, and some internal battles about their murderous past, it seemed unnecessary. She spends every day with him, cooks with him, laughs with him, cuddles with him at night, rides him in the morning. It never felt necessary to put a name to what they were doing, but now…

Now he’s her boyfriend, it seems like. 

And that title fits him just right, he thinks. 

“Thank you for taking care of my daughter,” Jake whispers to him as they make their way into the kitchen, where Clarke is already deep into cooking some pasta.

Only if this poor man knew how they met in the first place. It’s kind of funny now, he thinks, how he’s essentially fallen in love with the person who was supposed to become his first victim. 

But he smiles anyways, and is about to answer, but then Clarke exits the kitchen with two different kinds of pasta in each hand for her Dad to choose from, and he’s never seen her so fucking happy in his life. It suits her. This is exactly how it’s supposed to be.

When Clarke’s father leaves for the night, insisting that they need some privacy and that he’s more than happy to spend the night in a hotel, Bellamy knows he needs to ask her about the boyfriend thing. It’s inevitable, right? 

After making Jake promise they’ll see each other in the morning, and telling him to text her before he goes to sleep, she finally relaxes. 

The big smile on her face as she closes the front door is genuine, and her happiness lights up the whole room around them. It lights up his whole universe, which is right in front of him. 

“You look happy,” he smiles over at her.

“I am,” she sighs, and walks over to him. She wraps her arms around his middle, and plants a small kiss on his chest. He smells like home, and peace. 

He swallows. It’s now or never, “I hate to break this moment,” he clears his throat, “But I think we need to talk about the fact that you told your father that I’m your boyfriend.”

His voice sounds light, relaxed, so she’s not too worried about it. She shrugs inside his embrace, “Aren't you?”

“Well,” his heart starts pounding like crazy, and he’s pretty sure she can feel it, “You haven’t asked me.”

She rolls her eyes, because she can’t believe this man sometimes. So she detaches herself from his arms, takes both of his hands on hers, and looks deep into his eyes. He can’t help but smirk at how unbelievably adorable she looks right now. 

“Bellamy Blake,” she starts, and chuckles a little when she sees his smug expression, “Will you do me the great honour of becoming my boyfriend, in sickness and in health, until death do us part?”

“Death almost did us part once or twice, alright.”

“Shut up and say yes.”

He laughs, and pulls her close again. Pressing their foreheads together, he says the words he’s been waiting to tell her for far too long now, “Yes, Clarke Griffin. I will be honoured to be your boyfriend, and I can’t wait to spend the rest of my days with my beautiful, happy Princess.” 

Her cheeks get hot at his words, and she has to hide her embarrassed face on his chest. Since when has she become so stupidly soft? She can’t help but think this might just be the Bellamy Blake effect, and she’s not going to fight it. She’s happier this way, when she allows herself to be vulnerable in front of him. She’s safe with Bellamy in every way, and so is her heart. 

“I love you,” she whispers then, and nothing has never felt more sincere. 

He kisses the top of her head, and holds her closer, “I love you too. Forever.”

“Forever.”

The next day, Bellamy forces Clarke to stop looking for new apartments, because it just doesn’t make any sense. And they move in together. Now his tiny apartment feels fuller, looks brighter, and he can’t wait to make memories with her that they can hang up on the walls. 

Everything isn’t ideal, and they know that. They’re aware that their relationship has to remain a secret, as they’re technically still a Professor and his student until the end of the school year, but they’re okay with it. They have suffered enough in the past — they deserve this one, and they’re not going to ruin it. They’re willing to wait for each other. 

Plus, it’s kind of a turn on for Clarke to look at her hot Professor during class, the one everyone drools over, knowing that he’s all hers. 

Once all the commotion has passed, Clarke goes back to Eligius, and Bellamy goes back to Trikru. 

And they quit. 

It’s the right thing to do, both Diyoza and Indra know it, and they don’t try to hold them back.

“It pains me to lose my best hitwoman,” Diyoza confesses, pulling Clarke in for a warm hug. Their first one, “But it makes me happy to know I’ve gained a second daughter. You deserve this life, Clarke. Go make the most of it.”

And so she hugs her tighter, because her words are too true not to. Clarke tells her that she still wants to visit little Hope from time to time, that she wants to know all the gossip that goes around Eligius, and Diyoza of course assures her that she’ll keep her updated. 

A month later, Diyoza calls her to let her know that Eligius and Trikru don’t exist anymore.

After the success of taking Pike and later Azgeda down, neither women saw the point in going back to trying to eliminate each other, and thought that the most intelligent option would be to unite forces. 

And so Skaikru was born.

A week after that, Bellamy brings Clarke over to meet Octavia. He’s not sure if they’re still on good terms, but he knows that if he wants his sister back he needs to make an effort, and this is his way of telling her that he still cares. 

Clarke isn’t sure if Octavia likes her very much, to be honest. Bellamy told her that his sister knows who she is, that she’s aware of their backstory and their intense first meeting, so that’s probably why. Her boyfriend Lincoln is pretty nice, though, so that keeps the awkwardness at bay for a bit. 

As the minutes pass, though, Octavia seems to warm up to her just enough to silently give away that she’ll eventually forgive Bellamy and accept her. A small smile here, an innocent joke there. Knowing stares between the Blake siblings. They are going to be fine, and Clarke is willing to wait as much as it takes. She has all the time in the world now, after all. 

Weeks go by, and it doesn’t take her long to realise that  _ this _ is the fairytale she’s been longing for so many years. 

Her domestic life with Bellamy, seeing her father every day, getting coffee with Octavia from time to time, stopping over at Diyoza’s to see Hope, hanging out with Monty, Raven, Echo and the rest of the crew outside of work. 

She finally knows happiness, and she doesn’t think that it can get much better than this. 

Until one day, a couple of days after her graduation, she’s laying on the couch with Bellamy, head on his lap as he runs his fingers through her soft hair like he does every night, and suddenly he says, “You know I want to marry you, right?”

Her heart stops, her throat goes completely dry, and her palms start sweating, “Like, tonight?”, she teases him, trying to play it cool. 

His eyes are lost far away on the TV, and he’s speaking so casually it almost doesn’t sound like the big conversation it actually is, “I mean, if you really want to,” he chuckles, “But I was talking about doing it in, you know, the foreseeable future.” 

She relaxes a bit under his touch, but her heart is still racing with excitement and something she’s recently learned to identify as love, “As long as I don’t have to ask you,” she teases him, and he pulls at her hair softly in response. She squeals. 

“Don’t, please,” he says then, “I really want to do that.”

“Really?”, she frowns, because she simply never imagined Bellamy as the romantic kind. She’s recently learning how wrong she’s been. 

“Yeah,” he looks embarrassed now, shy, his cheeks slightly red under the dim light of the living room, “I never thought I would want to get married, start a family, any of that. And then Indra assigned me to kill you.”

She wants to laugh at his obvious joke, really, she does, but she can’t. Her focus is somewhere else.

_ Start a family. _

“You want to… have children?”, she asks, heart stopping again, “With  _ me _ ?”

He’s looking down at her now, a small smile on his face, “I wouldn’t have children with anyone else, Princess,” he laughs at her incredulity, “But yeah, one day. Whenever you’re ready.”

“Right, because you’re ready  _ right now _ ,” she jokes, but inside she’s freaking out. It’s not like she doesn’t want a family with him, quite the opposite really, but learning that he wants that too is making her head spin. He surely can’t be real. It feels too perfect now, all of it, and she’s actually just starting to believe that perhaps she does deserve a happy ending after all. 

He shrugs playfully, “I’d be a good father,” he says with a hint of desire in his voice, and she has no doubts about that. Her breath hitches as she pictures Bellamy with their little baby cradled in his safe arms, a sleepy smile on his face like the one he has right now, “I’d teach them how to braid hair and kick ass. You know, the essentials.”

“Oh my god, Bell. Our poor children,” she shakes her head, a wide grin on her lips. 

He laughs again, “Hey. Have some blind trust in me for once, Princess.”

“For once?”, she arches a playful eyebrow, “I’d say I’ve had enough blind trust in you for a couple of lifetimes already.”

He cups her cheek carefully then, bringing her head up slightly to meet him halfway. He leans down, and whispers, “You think you have any left?”

“For you?,” she smiles, “Always.”

And so he kisses her, realising just then that this, too, is his long-awaited fairytale. 


End file.
